Torn
by MizJoely
Summary: Molly Hooper has been torn from the world she knows and thrown into a bizarre, alternate version of London where Sherlock Holmes is the master criminal and everything she's ever known has been turned upside down. Rated for adult situations and violence.
1. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper

_AU Mirrorverse Sherlock, inspired by Adi Who Is Also Mou's fabulous story "Mirror, Mirror." Molly Hooper has been torn from the world she knows and thrown into a bizarre, alternate version of London where Sherlock Holmes is the master criminal and everything she's ever known has been turned upside down. Warnings for violence and eventual noncom/dubcon and bad language. And I own nothing but the plot and the words (and said violence, noncom/dubcon & bad language, of course)._

_Many, many thanks to broomclosetkink for her input, to moonmama for her superlative betaing assistance, and to LoyaulteMeLie for her invaluable assistance in minimizing the Americanisms (otherwise there would be reference to a drunken frat boy in Ch. 5; kudos to anyone who figures out what it was replaced with!)._

_This will be dark and angsty as stated above but never fear! There WILL be a happy ending for Molly. Reviews always gratefully received!_

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**Chapter 1: Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper**

**December 24, 2011 – Here**

Christmas Eve, 2011. Sherlock and John's flat, 221B Baker Street. A Christmas party, to which Molly Hooper, St. Bart's youngest staff Pathologist, had been invited.

She'd dressed up specially. She'd brought presents for all the other (few) guests, taking special care with Sherlock's gift.

Then of course Sherlock had spoiled everything the way he usually did, by saying such terrible, awful things to her, and before she could even think of a way to react (besides standing there, frozen in place as if his words had been actual missiles that had pinned her feet to the floor); before she could do more than form a desperate wish for the floor to open up and swallow her, she realized that the ringing and buzzing sound she'd thought was simply her own panic in her ears had turned out to be…something that everyone else could hear as well, judging by their puzzled reactions, the way they all (herself and Sherlock included) started looking around the room. Trying to pinpoint the source of the noise and growing vibration.

When she looked up, there it was, centered just above her head, a black whirlpool of exotic (dark, terrifyingly dark) energy that had formed in the ceiling. She managed a single, panicky thought: _This isn't what I meant!_ before the darkness swallowed her up…

…and she awoke in a nightmare.

**There…**

Christmas Eve, 2011. 221B Baker Street, one of many flats owned and used by Sherlock Holmes, infamous "Consulting Criminal" and the man who'd had a stranglehold on England's underworld since he'd seized it from various factions a decade earlier.

The flat was empty of all life but one, the man himself. Standing near the fireplace, violin in hand, drawing the bow across the strings as he contemplated his latest series of interwoven plots, the ones that would finally get Scotland and Ireland firmly under his thumb – at least, the elements that mattered. The ones that would give him the mental stimulation he craved more than the drugs he'd foolishly experimented with in his early teen years.

A cruel smile curved his lips as his right arm moved, the bow lowered to the strings of the Stradivarius he'd "liberated" from its rightful owner less than six months ago – and then all hell broke loose inside his private, secure, impregnable flat.

It started with a low humming, swiftly rising to an unbearable level of shrillness, intermixed with the shattering booms of thunder, as if a storm cloud was gathering inside his sitting room. A breeze out of nowhere, growing rapidly to gale strength, whipping against his wiry form, pressing him against the white marble fireplace, forcing him to drop the priceless violin as he grabbed desperately at the mantle, anchoring himself against the howling gale.

Squinting against the battering of the wind, he watched through wary, watchful (but never _disbelieving_, not when it was patently obvious that…something…was occurring, something extraordinary but obviously not _impossible_) eyes inside his flat.

With a sound very much like ripping fabric, only ten, a hundred, a thousand times louder, the dark, cloudy mass of energy that had formed near the center of his parlor ceiling spat forth a forked tongue of lightning…and an unconscious woman.

After recovering from the shock of such…supernatural events (recovering far faster than any other person would, he knew without a doubt), Sherlock cautiously approached the woman. Whatever otherworldly storm had deposited her there was a matter for future investigation; his flat was constantly monitored, access to the recordings restricted to himself and his private IT team (loyalty secured through a combination of threats and lavish rewards, the carrot-and-stick method being a tried and true system), and he was very interested in seeing that footage.

_After_ he ascertained the identity of the woman now lying – dead or unconscious – on his sitting room floor.

He took in the details of her appearance with the flick of an eye; petite, slender, weight approximately 115 pounds, height five foot three inches, long brown-to-auburn hair, delicate features, mouth a bit small, breasts as well…all in all a moderately attractive woman even though she was currently pale to the point of ghostly whiteness.

Breathing, the slow beat of her pulse visible in her neck. Not dead, then. Good.

On to her clothing. Dressed for some kind of semi-formal (romantic?) occasion in a black, form-fitting sheathe decorated with a band of silver embroidery along the square cut-top and thin shoulder straps, moderately inexpensive in cut and fabric, nothing else of note. Matching black, low-heeled pumps (extrapolation: she was unsteady in anything higher and comfortable with her short height else she'd have worn something more appropriate to the style of her dress) encasing tiny feet (size 5 ½ at most). On her legs, sheer black stockings, one (left leg) rumpled and a bit loose (thigh-highs rather than full pantyhose), with a series of tears or runs from just below the knee to the top of the foot, the lower ones – yes, dotted with drops of blood stemming from what appeared to be scratches beneath the dark material. Interesting, that; put it to the head of the file when it came time to review the data in more detail (tentative conclusion: the fragile fabric had been somehow damaged during the transition from wherever she'd been to here, further exacerbated by her fall to the floor; secondary conclusion: her journey had not been without mishap, closer examination of her body was required to ascertain any additional injuries she might have sustained). Jewelry: ridiculously oversized hoop earrings, a silver band of fabric (cut from the same material adorning her dress) around her left wrist, and a tacky silver gift bow embellishing her hair – pulled back away from her face but falling loosely down her back – nothing to explain who she was or how she'd arrived in his flat.

An anticipatory grin split his features; excellent! It had been far too long since he'd been caught by surprise like this, and to have a mystery manifest itself inside his flat was the best Christmas present he could have been given.

When he finished his initial, cursory examination (there was bound to be much, much more he could learn from examining her underclothing, the residue beneath her fingernails, her very DNA – possible DNA from the scratches in her legs as well, matching as they did...yes, fingers from a human male hand-span much the size and spread of his own), he leaned forward to touch her, then hesitated. Considering her remarkable manifestation inside his flat, it was reasonable to assume he should use a modicum of caution when it came to handling her, even though she remained unconscious and gave off no sense of extraordinary heat or cold or other energy residue.

Retreating to the kitchen, he found a pair of surgical gloves and his riding crop. Donning the first and tucking the latter beneath one arm, he once again approached the unconscious woman's form. Kneeling by her side, he ascertained that she was still breathing, that nothing had changed in the few seconds he'd been away from her side. Good. Although a corpse would undoubtedly prove much less difficult to examine, a living, breathing woman was much, much more interesting. The wolfish grin returned as he reached out and prodded her on the shoulder with the tip of his riding crop.

No reaction, except for the slight rolling of her shoulder due to the impact of the leather-wrapped steel rod.

He shoved her again, harder; the only result this time was that she collapsed fully onto her back, left cheek of her face coming to rest against the hardwood floor.

If she was faking it, she was a superb actress, rivaling any Dame who'd ever trod the boards. Unconsciousness was much harder to feign than most people believed, and if she was shamming she knew exactly what to do. There was no movement of her eyes beneath her lids, and when he cautiously pried one open (dark brown irises, bloodshot sclera), the pupils remained fixed and dilated. There was no change in her breathing or, when he pressed a hand to her wrist, the slow thud of her pulse. No reaction to his brusque touch, head lolling when he shoved her…No, he concluded, this woman, whoever she was – and that wasn't even the most pressing question at the moment – was entirely unconscious.

The possibility of a supernatural – or even extraterrestrial – explanation for her mysterious arrival in his flat was considered and dismissed in the blink of an eye – less than that, actually. The possible scientific explanations he pondered as he retrieved a pair of plastic zip-ties from the flat's small kitchen and deftly bound her hands behind her back.

Once she was restrained, he turned to a closer examination of her body for injuries. There was a raised bump on the back of her head, but that could be attributed to her heavy fall to the floor. All other injuries were minor (the scratches on her legs, a few bruises on her backside and heels) and aside from the scratches could also be attributed as much to her fall as to anything that might have happened during her journey.

The tears in her stockings held the most interest for him as he lightly pressed his gloved hand to her flesh – warm but not feverish – ending with his fingers resting on her ankle, where the scratches were deepest. Yes, his hand-span exactly. Interesting. Very, very interesting. A DNA swab of those scratches moved to the top of the list of priorities he was organizing in his mind.

By the time he'd lifted her slight form – he frowned as he realized he'd overestimated her weight by at least two pounds, sloppy, he rarely missed something so obvious – and carried her to his bedroom, he'd come to some tentative conclusions regarding her unorthodox arrival in his flat.

The most likely possibility was that someone, somehow, had developed some radical new method of transporting a living body from one location to another (was she some kind of gift for him, or a trap – her clothing and attractive features and figure could indicate either possibility, although if it was the latter, then whoever had sent her severely overestimated his ability to be distracted by a pretty face). Another – and far less likely – possibility was that she had been deposited here by more conventional means, that he had been subjected to an incredibly detailed illusion meant to catch him off guard, distract his attention or otherwise keep him occupied while an enemy of some kind used said distraction for his or her own ends.

Based on that conclusion he finished restraining his intriguing visitor by the wrists and ankles before firing off a text to his head of security regarding the matter. After that he contacted various functionaries, demanding their immediate review of all on-going projects, to be followed by detailed reports of their status and any unexpected problems or complications that might have arisen, with careful attention to be paid to anything that had come up in the last twenty-four hours.

After he'd accomplished those goals, he retreated back to the sitting room and from there to the front door. He opened it and called down to the guard standing watch by the building's front entrance. "Milverton! Up here, now!"

**oOo**

After blasting the man for falling asleep at his post – which he'd obviously done, else he'd have noticed the very loud sound of a 112-pound woman falling from a height of approximately eight feet onto an uncarpeted hardwood floor, not to mention the incongruous sounds of gale-force winds before that event – he sent Milverton on a series of tasks: contact Wiggins from IT and get him to the flat; find a doctor who owed them money, preferably from gambling debts, and get him to the flat as well (_personally_, it was stressed, and if the doctor proved to be more than half-competent it would go a long way toward Milverton's professional redemption); and finally, contact his brother Mycroft.

Not that he had any desire to speak to his hypercritical elder sibling; however, in order to investigate this odd occurrence with any kind of depth, he would have to bring Mycroft in on it. He had resources even the emperor of the British underworld couldn't get his hands on, and Sherlock suspected this case was going to be well worth the cashing in of Mycroft's considerable debt to his younger brother; the man wouldn't be in line to become the next Prime Minister if not for Sherlock's behind-the-scenes machinations, and well he knew it.

He also suspected it would require that he, in turn, be placed into Mycroft's debt, but he would cross that flaming, debris-strewn wreckage of a bridge when he came to it.

Once Milverton had been dispatched – and his head of security, Sebastian Moran, had sent a man to take his place while he himself stood guard just inside the flat itself – Sherlock returned to his bedroom, standing in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back, attempting to glean what additional information he could from further examination of his still-unconscious guest.

She was approximately 30 years of age and of Irish descent, that much was obvious. Her name would no doubt be something along the lines of Bridget or Colleen or Molly, last name something equally common and nondescript. She was a scientist or medical doctor of some kind, although there was scant evidence showing which field held her particular specialty. Considering how she'd arrived in his flat, his initial surmise that she was a physicist of some kind was quite logical; however, closer examination of her hands, particularly her fingers, caused him to rethink that conclusion.

He was amusing himself by attempting to deduce more about her than the simple fact of her age and racial origin, that she owned at least one cat – a long-haired tabby – and had dressed specifically to impress a man (but was unmarried and very likely never had been married, no signs of ever having worn a ring on the appropriate finger). Soon the interrogation would begin and she would give him all the answers he required in order to ascertain if she was a threat to be immediately eliminated or an important part of the larger mystery surrounding her origins.

He had all the necessary interrogation tools here in this flat – drugs, the riding crop, some items he'd invented himself as well as various other tools of the trade – but preferred to have an actual physician administer the medication necessary to wrest the truth from her and perform the initial monitoring of her vitals. It was always better to have someone to blame if things went south, he reflected as he continued to study her limp form, dissecting her with his eyes whilst actively considering doing so in the more literal sense if it turned out to be necessary. Certainly medical scans would need to be performed if his growing certainty regarding the nature of her arrival here turned out to be correct.

Today was turning out to be so much more…interesting…than he'd expected.

He smiled.

**oOo**

Everything hurt. Her feet, her arms – especially her wrists – her shoulders, neck, head, abdomen…

Molly gave up trying to catalogue where exactly it _did_ hurt and went for the Indiana Jones solution – where _didn't_ it hurt?

Well, her nose seemed to be OK, and perhaps the tops of her cheeks. She felt a giggle trying to escape her mouth and managed to clamp down on it with lips that didn't hurt much, either. Nice to know that it wouldn't be painful if she tried to kiss someone…

Oh, her mind kept wandering, refusing to focus, why was that? Why were her thoughts so heavy and fuzzy, like a…a pair of those Bigfoot boots her mother used to wear back in the 1980s? She'd seen a picture of her wearing them once, when she was about six or seven, a few years before her mother had been hit by that drunken lorry driver on her way to pick Molly up from school…big, fuzzy, furry clunky looking boots over a pair of skinny jeans, and her mother's radiant smile from behind her oversized glasses and permed red hair…

"She's awake."

That voice, it sounded familiar…even through the muddled haze of her mind, she was able to latch onto that voice. Why couldn't she remember who it was…male, obviously, a voice that gave her a deep sense of comfort…her father?

No, her father was dead, she remembered that now. Her sad, sad Dad with his cancer and his broad grin except when he thought no one could see him…she missed him, more than she did her Mum, because he'd been all she had after that arsehole ran her down…down…down…

"Damn, she's fading!"

"Then wake her up, doctor. It's one of the reasons you're here, after all."

That was the first voice speaking again, jolting her back toward awareness, pulling her, jerking her along like a puppet being dragged by its strings…that deep, penetrating baritone she knew so well. Even in her current mental fog she'd recognize that voice anywhere… "Sherlock?" she slurred, peering up through bleary eyes that she just now realized had been closed.

An electric silence followed her question, and she found herself focusing on the second of the three shadowy figures standing in front of her. "S'that you, John?" she asked, proud of herself for finally remembering the owner of the other mystery voice. The third shadow hadn't spoken yet, but she laid a bet with herself that it was DI Lestrade. The holy trinity of the St. Bart's morgue, the three men with whom she spent the most time these days, too bad none of them wanted…

"How…fascinating," Sherlock's voice drawled, interrupting her scattered thoughts. "It appears she knows us, Dr. Watson. I do not recognize her. Do you?"

Oh, Sherlock, of course he didn't recognize her, she was in disguise, wasn't she? Dressed in clothes that fit well – a dress, she was wearing a dress, she remembered fighting the zipper – her hair and makeup done with a great deal of care…She giggled, not bothering to hold it back since some kind of lovely, cool slithering of happy floatiness seemed to have entered her veins, bringing her back to awareness, carrying with it a blissful lack of pain and a floating feeling she vaguely associated with high fevers from childhood illnesses.

"S'me, Molly," she slurred out, trying as always to be helpful. That was her, helpful Molly from the Morgue. Maybe the bow in her hair was throwing him off? "Sorry, know I look diff…diff'rent outta the morgue. I didn't think I looked that diff'rent innna dress, thought you noticed ever'thing, Sherlock…"

That seemed to use up what little store of energy she still retained, although she was enormously proud of herself for getting her entire speech out without once stuttering. Well, maybe once, but that hardly counted since it was because her tongue felt so thick and her brain still refused to focus, although thankfully her eyes were starting to do so…

Yes, that was Sherlock, frowning down at her from an even greater height than normal…why was that? She matched his frown with one of her own, although she knew she'd never manage to look anywhere near as forbidding as he could do without even half trying. She moved her head – careful, don't want the pain to return, after all – lowering it to look down at herself.

She was sitting in a chair. Oh, that explained it…except it didn't. Well, it explained why Sherlock seemed to loom over her taller than a Christmas tree, but it didn't explain anything else.

Like why her wrists were tied to the arms of the wooden chair she was seated in. Or why there was an IV inserted into the back of her left hand, some clear fluid drip, drip, dripping into her veins…oh, that must be the source of the cool loveliness that was keeping the pain away, keeping her mind adrift as well…had she been in an accident? But why was she tied to the chair, why were her feet bound as well – no, she couldn't move them, either. "Sherlock? What's going on? What's happened?"

No slurring that time, but she couldn't take any credit for that; it was all because of the panic that was countering the effects of whatever drugs she'd been pumped full of, the adrenaline rush giving her temporary clarity of speech and mind.

She took in the scene before her as everything seemed to snap into focus. She was in Sherlock and John's flat, she recognized that much. Facing the kitchen, staring up at three men. John Watson, wearing hospital scrubs (there was something wrong about that, although she couldn't for the life of her remember why that should be) looking decidedly unnerved; Sherlock Holmes, regarding her over folded arms with his usual inscrutable countenance, and another, black leather jacket-clad man she didn't recognize, holding a gun casually in one hand and with cold dark eyes trained on her face.

"Well, _Molly_, nice of you to finally join the party," Sherlock said with a sardonic lift to his eyebrow. He was standing the closest to her, only a few feet away, and she gaped at him as he dropped into a crouch in order to peer more closely into her face.

"What's going on?" she repeated as she tried to keep her eyes open and focused, to keep her mind at least semi-sharp as the adrenaline rush faded. Her name, he'd said it so strangely, but it was his other words that struck a chord. _Join the party_, why did that resonate… "What happened to the Christmas decorations?" she blurted out as the most incongruous detail – outside of her own, inexplicable imprisonment – finally came into focus.

She'd been at his and John's Christmas party…Sherlock had been horrid, she'd been utterly humiliated, he'd gone silent as if suddenly realizing exactly how horrid he was being, she'd wished the floor would open up and swallow her…then nothing. A complete blank between her last thought and now.

"I was hoping you could answer that, _Molly_," Sherlock drawled in response to her first question, although she could practically see him deducing her, taking her apart bit by bit before (possibly) putting her back together again. And he was still saying her name with such a strange inflection, and he'd – cut his hair? "Tell me, how did you arrive at my flat?"

"Why am I tied up?" she asked weakly, not ignoring his question so much as needing her own answered first. "Did I…do something?" Had she blacked out and gone on some sort of berserker rampage? Was that why the decorations were missing; had she torn them down, snapped like a crazy woman after Sherlock's devastating – and accurate – deconstruction of her motives for coming to the party dressed as she was? Had she – horror of all horrors – been the one to _chop off his lovely curls_?!

She recognized incipient hysteria and took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Surely that ridiculous scenario couldn't possibly be true…but she still had no idea why she was tied to a chair in Sherlock's flat, being confronted by two men she thought she knew and one she was positive she'd never seen before – some kind of private security officer or bodyguard?

Sherlock cut into her thoughts impatiently. "Yes, yes, his firearm and protective stance obviously indicate his position as my bodyguard, but I suppose we can't expect too much from you in your current state, especially with the drugs running through your veins. But you still haven't answered my question, _Molly_." He leaned forward, thrusting his face close to hers, causing her to flinch involuntarily and pull her head back. "How. Did. You. Come. To. Be. In. My. Flat?"

He punctuated his last word with a downward motion of his arm, bringing the riding crop she belatedly noticed he held in his left hand against the hardwood floor with a sharp "crack."

She started, swallowed nervously, and replied: "I…I took a cab. For the party?" She hadn't meant to make that last statement a question, but since it was increasingly obvious that this flat hadn't hosted a Christmas party any time in the recent past, she found herself doubting her most recent memories.

"You took a cab." Sherlock gazed downward, his tone meditative, then suddenly looked right at her, capturing her gaze with his own. "To my flat." She nodded, eyes wide, wanting desperately to break that electric, terrifying contact, but too frightened to do so. She wished John would say something; why was he just standing there, like an extra in a police procedural? Why wasn't he jumping to her defense, telling Sherlock to stop being an arse, demanding that she be untied?

For that matter, why wasn't _she_ doing any of those things? Well, she'd never been able to stand up to Sherlock before, so that was no great mystery, but she should at least be protesting her treatment at his hands, shouldn't she?

She opened her mouth to do just that, only to snap it shut as the riding crop went whistling past her face to slam painfully onto her thigh. She cried out as Sherlock returned to his full, imposing height and glowered down at her. "Don't bother. You won't be released until I'm satisfied you're no threat. Now. Answer my question – truthfully this time. How did you come to be in my flat?"

She shrank back against the chair, fully cowed by his unexpectedly brutal treatment of her. Yes, Sherlock could be harsh – but only verbally, at least to her. He'd never raised a hand against her in the past, yet here she was, with a stinging thigh and tears of pain prickling the corners of her eyes. "I took a cab," she whimpered, not understanding why he wouldn't believe that. Did he think she would take the Tube with a bag full of Christmas presents, wearing a skimpy, clingy dress under her winter coat, wobbling on (for her) high heels? "I swear, Sherlock, I took a cab…"

"Doctor?"

Without turning around, Sherlock addressed John. He responded quickly, nervously. "She can't lie, not with what she has running through her veins. She took a cab here, or at least she believes she did."

"Interesting."

Molly braced herself for more badgering from Sherlock, only to blink with surprise as his face relaxed into something approaching a smile. "Very well, doctor. Now, if you'll be so kind as to take some blood samples and do a DNA swab of both our 'guest' and the scratches on her left leg, I believe your services will no longer be required this evening. The IV is inserted, the dosage has been corrected, the rest I can certainly handle on my own."

_The dosage has been corrected_. Dosage of what? Molly still had no idea what was being dripped into her veins, but was frankly too shaken and terrified to ask, to do more than numbly sit there and wait for whatever fresh horror awaited her.

John was nodding his head in a series of short, sharp movements in response to Sherlock's words. He was sweating, Molly realized and his hands were trembling. He was as terrified as she was. "Right, all right, then. I'll make sure the results are ready by the end of day tomorrow…wait, no, it's Christmas, can it – can it wait until the day after, sir? I'm supposed to…my sister, she'll be in town, and I promised…"

He stumbled to a halt, eyes lowered as he waited for a response he clearly expected to be in the negative.

Sherlock gave him a sharp look, then nodded. "First thing Monday, Dr. Watson. Bring the results yourself."

John nodded again, a look of naked relief on his face as he turned toward the small table where Molly now saw a black medical bag rested. She cringed away when he approached her, in spite of the falsely bright smile he'd plastered on his face.

"This won't hurt a bit," he assured her, but his voice was mechanical rather than soothing and Molly decided she didn't much care for his bedside manner. She knew he was better than this; why was he acting this way? She wanted to ask him what was going on, but one wary look at Sherlock warned her to just sit tight and allow John to do as he'd been told…although why Sherlock needed samples of her blood and DNA, she had no idea.

She winced as John placed rubber tubing around her upper arm – the arm opposite her IV, of course, although there really was no "of course" about any of this – and swiftly drew three vials of her blood. Thank God his hands had steadied, but he'd jabbed her like she was actually one of the oranges all medical students trained on, and her wince of pain had skidded the needle along the vein just a bit. She'd have a hell of a bruise when this was all over.

Once he was finished drawing her blood, he pulled out a swab and directed her to open her mouth. She did so with a great deal of reluctance, but the sight of Sherlock looming over them, one hand idly tapping the riding crop against his leg, left her with no doubts as to her punishment should she refuse to allow the doctor to take the sample. John then knelt down, and, with a perfunctory apology, pulled her left stocking away from her leg – she winced as she felt the sheer fabric pulling on what felt and looked like a series of vertical scratches on her leg, Sherlock was right about that, but he was always right, wasn't he, even when he was being a prick, which he was today so much worse than usual...

She bit her lip to keep the hysteria running through her mind from passing to her vocal cords and out through her lips. Sherlock – this off-kilter, fun-house mirror version of Sherlock – didn't look like he'd take kindly to her falling apart on him. At any rate, John had finished tearing the already-ripped stocking, shredding it in order to get the required samples from those scratches (how had she got them, when had she got them, what the _hell_ was going on) before rising back to his feet.

"A-anything else, Mr. Holmes?" John stammered as he finished labeling the samples and placed them carefully in his bag.

Sherlock shook his head, still studying Molly in that completely unnerving way he had – more unnerving than usual, never mind the fact that she was still tied to a chair. "I can take it from here, doctor," he said, his voice dismissive.

John shuffled his feet nervously and cleared his throat. "Erm, about that thing, the thing your man mentioned when he, um, collected me from the A&E…"

Sherlock waved a hand just as dismissively. "Yes, yes, Moran will see to it. Escort the good doctor out and join your man at the door for the rest of the night, will you?" he threw over his shoulder. "And see that, hmm, thirty percent of Dr. Watson's debt to Angelo is canceled."

John looked absurdly grateful, and Molly wondered what debt Sherlock was talking about…and since when did John call him "Mr. Holmes?" She was feeling more and more like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole and unable to tell down from up.

The strange man – Moran – grunted acknowledgment of Sherlock's words and waited with ill-concealed impatience as John closed up his medical bag and grabbed a coat. Her sluggish mind caught up with his actions as she realized that John was leaving…why? He lived here, where was he going? Molly's panicked thoughts must have been clear in her eyes; Sherlock narrowed his, his attention completely captured by her once again. "You didn't expect Dr. Watson to leave…why is that?"

"He lives here!" Molly blurted out, then cringed in expectation of another lashing with the riding crop, which twitched in Sherlock's hand like a living thing. But no, it must have been his surprise at her words, not imminent attack, as it stilled again.

"I believe there are a great many things you will find not to be as you seem to expect them," Sherlock murmured as the other two men vacated the flat, Moran shutting the door firmly behind him.

Sherlock approached her again, circling behind her, watching her, unspeaking for an agonizingly long period of time that probably only lasted about a minute. Then he seemed to come to some decision; with a sharp nod of his head as he stopped in front of her, he removed a switchblade from his jacket pocket and flicked it open.

Molly cried out and shrank back; in this topsy-turvy world she'd woken up to, he'd already whipped, jabbed and drugged her; there was no telling what else he was capable of, he could very well intend to slit her throat with that wicked looking blade. Without a word he approached her, and she felt the words, the pleas, bubbling up in her throat but unable to force their way past the lump that had settled there – _please, don't hurt me, I'm sorry, I don't know what I did but I'll make it right, don't kill me, please, Sherlock, pleasepleasepleaseplease…_


	2. Welcome to My Nightmare

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing chapter 1 of this twisted saga. As always, thanks to moonmama for the arduous task of betaing this beast, and to Adi Who Is Also Mou for inspiring me to write it in the first place! This chapter has warnings for violence - remember, folks, Alt!Sherlock is Not Nice...and Molly is about to discover how Not Nice he really is..._

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**Chapter 2: Welcome To My Nightmare**

She'd fainted. Not unexpected, since he'd deliberately left off explaining that he was about to cut her free (all in the interests of science, of course; no matter how sharp a left turn his life had taken since his childhood ambitions to be the world's greatest chemist, he still retained a fascination with experimentation), but certainly an interesting response to stress. No, not stress; to the pure, unadulterated terror he'd seen in her eyes, the panic, the pleas she hadn't allowed to escape her lips.

That was the most interesting part, that remnant of self-control she'd retained in spite of her obvious bewilderment and fear. He'd seen the scream building behind her eyes as he'd made his way deliberately to her side, but she hadn't allowed it to escape.

While she sat with her head slumped on her shoulders, auburn hair partially obscuring her face, Sherlock sliced her right hand free and allowed the nylon rope fragments to drop to the floor. As he did so he noticed that she was still bleeding; in his haste to be out of the flat and (no doubt) off to the nearest gambling den, Watson hadn't bothered with so much as a sticking-plaster on the inside of her arm.

He could care less about her comfort, but the imported hardwood flooring was a bitch to clean. Expensive, too, and he had no interest in either dealing with such trivialities himself or waiting for his housekeeper to take care of it after she returned from the week-long holiday he'd granted her to visit her alcoholic brother and his sniveling wife (and their three teenaged brats, on whom Mrs. Hudson, an otherwise unsentimental woman, inexplicably doted) in Leeds.

Although it was a nuisance, he took the time to locate some cotton batting and medical tape in the kitchen emergency kit, applied it carelessly to his prisoner's arm, then cut her ankles free.

Only her left hand remained tied to the arm of the chair; after a moment's reflection, he decided to leave it. It wouldn't do to have her dislodging the IV, after all, if she woke up thrashing or decided to try and make a break for it. Yes, she could potentially free herself during a moment of distraction on his part (Hah! Small chance of that...) but her reaction to partial freedom was precisely the reason he was undoing her bonds in the first place. She should still be groggy and susceptible but experience told him everyone reacted to the drug cocktail differently, and if she was here deliberately, as some sort of decoy or distraction, he doubted she would willingly subject herself to further – and far more serious – attempts at interrogation.

Either way she would give something away to his careful observation of her. It was, he concluded, well worth the risk that she would (unlikely in the extreme) turn out to be some sort of martial arts master capable of taking him out whilst still tied to a chair.

She regained consciousness within minutes, while he carefully monitored the dose of truth-serum – his own formula, carefully balanced with a sedative also of his own devising and one of his more successful commercial ventures – dripping into her system.

He heard the subtle changes in her breathing that signaled the return of consciousness, felt her disoriented eyes upon him as they fluttered open, and deliberately ignored her as he made a minute adjustment to the flow. Dr. Watson (no major vices other than the oh-so-convenient gambling addiction, a competent doctor although an indifferent phlebotomist, with a sister who drank and was rather overbearing, all facts that could be extremely useful in the future) had done an adequate job adjusting the dosage, but Sherlock Holmes never entirely relied on anyone else's expertise if he could help it.

By the time he returned his attention to Molly, she was shaking. Good. He'd allowed Dr. Watson to do take his samples without further questioning to give her a chance to try and adjust to what was happening to her, but that interval was over.

He'd also used it to give himself time to ponder what little – but very, very interesting – information he'd gleaned so far.

She recognized him. Not so unlikely; he was something of a celebrity, after all, in his own right (for his alleged crimes, which he delighted in flaunting before the authorities who sought –unsuccessfully – to convict him) and because of his relationship to his rather more famous (although still infamous in certain circles) brother. But it was more than that, a mere recognition of celebrity; she thought she _knew_ him, well enough to call him by his first name, a liberty he decided to tolerate, at least for the moment, for the sheer novelty of hearing it from the lips of someone other than a detested family member.

Even more interesting was the fact that she also thought she knew John Watson. She'd believed the man, whom he'd never met before this evening, _lived_ here – interesting, that. She'd recognized them both immediately upon wakening, and had seemed to recognize Moran – or at least thought she did – and been surprised to find he wasn't who she'd been expecting to see.

The question was, then, who _had_ she expected to see? And yes, _expected_ was the right word to use. She'd focused on the three men in front of her as if it was the most natural thing in the world; she hadn't seen them as a threatening trio of strangers looming over her in a strange place.

She'd recognized the flat as well, which was among the more interesting – and disturbing – things he'd learned about her so far. It would certainly require further investigation.

But not just yet, not until he appeased his curiosity as to who she'd expected the third man to be. "You recognized me, you recognized Watson, and you thought you recognized Moran," he began without preamble. "Who did you think he was?"

She stared up at him, her eyes darting downward as he gave the riding crop an idle twitch. She bit her lip nervously and shied away; good. She was already intimidated and well on her way to being properly trained to respond to his nonverbal cues; he would be sure to keep the crop on hand during all future encounters with her.

"G-greg," she finally managed to stammer as her eyes once again met his. Smart girl, she knew better than to break eye contact for more than a brief period of time. And she apparently understood the futility of attempting any kind of an escape, beyond the surreptitious testing of her remaining bonds (which he'd anticipated, of course). He watched impassively as she winced and stretched out her legs, flexing her right wrist at the same time to try and ease the cramping that had no doubt set in. "I – I thought he was Greg. Lestrade," she added, as if suddenly realizing he might need more information than just a first name.

His eyes narrowed at the revelation – he certainly would never have anticipated _that_. "Greg Lestrade," he repeated disbelievingly. "The Scotland Yard inspector. You thought he would be in my flat…why?"

"Be-because you're friends, he was at the party," she replied, still stammering but speaking slower this time. Good. He continued to monitor her reactions carefully, noting the slight relaxation of her body as the increased dosage made its way through her system, the dilating of her pupils and deepening of her breathing. He wanted her acquiescent but not so far gone as to return to the giggling idiot she'd been when she first regained consciousness.

By the end of the three-hour interrogation, she was nearly unconscious again, her entire body trembling and sweat-covered, with a spectacular set of bruises on her thighs from the three times he'd felt she needed "encouraging." There was a smaller bruise decorating the inside of her left arm around his make-shift bandage from Dr. Watson's indifferent abilities with the needle, and tears streaked her cheeks. All in all, a most satisfactory outcome for an evening's work.

During those three hours other things occurred, of course. His "loving" brother had contacted him via message, a testy note stating that anything Sherlock had to say could bloody well wait until after the holidays (not unexpected but extremely vexing; still, it would be a real pleasure to see Mycroft's reaction when he realized how urgent – and potentially vital to the security of the British Empire – Sherlock's message had actually been).

He'd also met with Wiggins from IT (Molly having once again slipped into unconsciousness for the duration of that visit) and his assistant, Jamie something-or-other Sherlock hadn't bothered to memorize and never would unless the underling managed to impress him enough to rise higher in the organization's hierarchy. They had been dispatched on separate missions, Wiggins to review the flat's surveillance data, Jamie to perform the necessary scans to prove (or disprove, as it turned out) the presence of any kind of electronic equipment that might have been used to create the illusion of a woman hovering in mid-air during an indoor electrical storm and then being spat out onto the floor like a discarded packet of crisps.

The younger man (_Irish mother, English father, only child, gay, nothing else about him currently worth deducing_) had had the common sense not to so much as raise an eyebrow as Sherlock detailed his duties to him, had simply nodded quietly and gone about his business. He was due to return in the early hours of the morning and conduct a more thorough search of the interior of the flat, but only after Sherlock was finished with his current project.

By the end of the third hour of her interrogation, he'd discovered a great many things about his unexpected guest, some from her and some from a computer search based on the full name she gave him when he demanded it from her.

She claimed to be Dr. Molly Elizabeth Kathleen Hooper, age 32, born in Derbyshire 6 June 1979 to John and Patricia Hooper, now deceased. She claimed one brother, Kevin Matthew Joseph, aged 27, currently residing in Australia, unmarried, working as an investment counselor in Melbourne. No other living relatives. Pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital for the past six years, straight out of medical school (graduated with honors from Edinburgh). Licensed driver, non-smoker, social drinker. Owner of a three-year-old marmalade tom named Toby, first-time visitor to 221B Baker Street at the invitation of Dr. John Watson, flatmate and close friend to the man she harbored a rather large crush on – Sherlock Holmes.

Consulting Detective.

His lip curled at the thought of using his vast intellect for something so mundane and boring as assisting law enforcement. Really, the idea that he would stoop to helping DI Lestrade – who was currently proving to be a frustratingly difficult man to bribe, blackmail or otherwise compromise into submission the way so many of his counterparts at New Scotland Yard had been, but his people would keep digging, searching for whatever vice or weakness the man was bound to be hiding – whilst simultaneously wheedling corpses and body parts to experiment on from this woman…ludicrous, that's what it was.

Absolutely ludicrous.

And yet…

She believed it. Every word she spoke appeared to be the truth as she knew it. She didn't recall how she'd arrived here, still insisted she'd taken a cab, that she'd been invited to a party, but he was willing to set that aside for a more intensive interrogation once his suspicions had been confirmed.

Later. Eager as he was to learn more, as an experienced interrogator he recognized when it was time to end his questioning and allow the subject time to recover. Dr. Hooper was clearly exhausted, and although the drugs took the edge off her terror, it was equally clear that her ability to string together a coherent sentence was rapidly deteriorating. He would resume his questioning in the daylight hours.

It would be a fresh start in more ways than one; before he removed the IV drip, he opened the tap to its fullest, allowing her system to be overwhelmed by the drug cocktail for the briefest of seconds. It would ensure amnesia, wipe her memories clear, give him a second chance to assess her in the clear light of day and with no conscious memories of her interrogation clouding her reactions.

She went limp as he carefully removed the needle from the back of her hand and cut away the final set of bonds before lifting her in his arms and once again carrying her to his bedroom. She could sleep there for the night, as he had no intention of using either of the beds in the flat – or in any of his other homes or work spaces – anytime soon.

There was nothing, short of a drug overdose such as he'd so carefully administered to her or a blow to the head, that could slow his brain down enough for him to sleep at the moment.

_Whenever you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. _

It was his mantra, along with _never give a sucker an even break_ and _only a fool trusts others_.

Although it was still possible that Molly Hooper had been transported to his flat from some nearby location, his current theory was that she came from much further away.

From another, alternate reality, to be precise. Another London, another Earth, where there was another Sherlock Holmes. One where he was some soft-brained consulting detective. It fit the facts, and some promising physics research at Oxford he'd read about recently would seem to back up his current theory as to Dr. Hooper's extraordinary origins. He would put Wiggins and Jamie on it as soon as they completed their current duties.

It was still possible that his tentative conclusion was incorrect, that she was here as part of some elaborate hoax or deception by an enemy, or that his original theory that she was here due to some kind of experimental form of transportation malfunctioning would prove to be correct, but he felt the confidence of a correct deduction and that certainty was something he never questioned.

Certainty or not, however, he would still need to do some research of his own, to ensure that Wiggins and his assistant were looking in the correct locations.

He grinned as he carefully laid his "guest" on the duvet and stepped back to regard her unconscious form, reveling in the mystery she represented.

All in all, he couldn't recall when he'd spent a more delightful Christmas Eve.

**oOo**

Molly woke up, disoriented and aching, for the second time in twenty-four hours, although she wasn't to realize it was the second time she'd awakened until much later.

Whether she remembered or not, it didn't take her nearly as long to recover the second time round, especially once she realized she was lying on top of the duvet of a strange bed, in a room she'd never seen before.

Oh God, how much had she had to drink at that party last night? She frowned, blinking as she surveyed the room before returning her attention to herself. Taking stock, as it were. She was relieved to find that she was still fully dressed – including her knickers – then worried all over again as she noticed she was wearing only one of her stockings and that her shoes were nowhere to be found.

It was even more of a relief to realize she was completely alone. Nor was there any sign that someone else had shared the bed with her – no indented pillow, no discarded clothing, no lingering scent of cologne – but even though that made her feel fractionally better, the fact that she'd apparently passed out in a strange bedroom was enough to make the bile rise in her throat.

She sat up cautiously and swung her legs over the side of the bed, resting with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands on the mattress as she waited for her head to stop spinning. God, she normally only had a glass or two of wine; had Sherlock been experimenting with the alcohol? She wouldn't put it past him to do something like that, but she doubted John would let his flat-mate get away with such a thing.

_Sherlock_. Why did the thought of him send a cold shiver down her spine? She didn't honestly think he'd dosed her wine with something sinister, did she? No, of course not. She'd just taken too much to drink, and the most likely explanation for waking up here was that either John or Mrs. Hudson had put her to bed to sleep it off rather than bundle her into a cab and hope she made her way home safely.

Which meant this was either John's or Sherlock's bedroom – probably Sherlock's, judging by the framed periodic table of the elements decorating one wall and the human skull sitting on the edge of the dressing-table. She just couldn't picture John Watson keeping so gruesome a souvenir – not to mention the fact it looked suspiciously like one that had gone missing from cold storage a year ago, now that she was giving it a proper look.

Her critical examination of the questionable skull was cut short when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and winced at the image presented there. Skin paler than normal where it wasn't blotchy, eyes red and baggy, her hair a witch's snarl around her face, with the silly little silver bow she'd pinned there all squashed and shapeless but still firmly in place – God, she looked deader than the skull. She moved her legs and let out a stifled yelp of pain; why did her thighs hurt so much, and her arm, and her left ankle, and the back of her hand and head…

She froze, eyes widened in shock as she looked down at herself. She'd been too bleary to notice before, but her left leg, the bare one, clearly showed the angry red marks of scratches on her shin and ankle. She'd been scratched by enough cats in her life to recognize the type of injury she'd sustained, but there was no cat outside of a zoo in London that could have done that much damage to her.

Someone – some person – had scratched her. And someone had done something just as painful to the tops of her thighs; she saw more dried blood and several bruises there, painful to the touch when she prodded gingerly at them. Moving her arm revealed another mystery; someone had put a make-shift bandage on the inside of her right elbow, as if she'd had blood drawn…and there, on the back of her left hand, was the tell-tale sign of bruising where an IV had been placed and removed.

She reached up gingerly to prod at the back of her head, gently investigating the sore spot she found there, feeling the lump that had been raised – how? Had she been in an accident of some sort? "What happened last night?" she asked aloud, thoroughly bewildered and not expecting an answer.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she received one.

"Evidence would suggest that you were somehow dragged from your world and dropped into mine."

She recognized the deep baritone of his voice before she turned her head to confirm that yes, it was Sherlock who'd spoken. He was lounging in the doorway, studying her, raking his eyes from her disheveled head to her half-stocking-clad feet, missing nothing in between. Looking as put together as always in dark blue shirt and gray trousers that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, the git.

So. Unfair.

"Did I – was there some kind of accident?" she asked, swallowing hard, trying to will her heartbeat back down to its normal rate, ignoring the cold sweat and goose bumps that had broken out over her flesh at the sound of his voice.

_You always say such terrible things…_

Unbidden, the words echoed through her mind; had she said that to him, last night? Was that why she found herself reacting to him with an otherwise inexplicable sense of…dread? Had he said something to her at the party, hurt her feelings or verbally cut her down or…

The party. She was still in her dress, so the party had been last night. Which meant it was Christmas Day, and he was apparently stuck babysitting her unconscious form when he probably had family celebrations – or, more likely, experiments – to get to. She pushed herself up and away from the bed, determined not to be any more of a burden than she clearly had already been…

…and cried out in pain as her legs gave way, buckling beneath her, nearly sending her crashing to the floor.

Thank God for Sherlock and his uncanny reflexes. He was across the room and catching her in his arms before she'd finished crying out, setting her back on the edge of the bed and crouching down in front of her with a critical look on his face. "God, Sherlock, what happened last night?" she blurted out, face burning but determined to get some kind of an answer before doing anything as patently stupid as trying to stand up again.

"I already told you, Dr. Hooper. Due to some currently unidentified phenomena, you were somehow removed from your own universe and quite literally dropped into mine." His voice was cold, his hair – Good God, what had happened to his hair, who had butchered those lovely curls and left behind nothing but this sleek, dark smoothness?

"I don't, I don't understand," she said, forcing herself to pay attention to what he was saying and not how he looked (gorgeous, intimidating, cold, the usual but something more, something she didn't want to identify). "Is this – a joke?"

He huffed impatiently and rose to his feet, grasping her by one arm and yanking her upright. She cried out as her legs continued to cramp, as his fingers dug cruelly into her upper arm, then bit her lip and did her best to stifle further expressions of pain based solely on the icy fury that had arisen in his eyes and threatened to unleash itself on her.

She was, for the first time in her life, properly terrified of a man who'd only ever intimidated her before – with the force of his intellect, the cutting edge of his tongue, and yes, his incredible good looks. But she'd never, ever felt actual fear for her physical well-being when confronted by him.

She certainly felt it now. She felt it as he dragged her out of the bedroom and down a short hall; she felt it as they entered the flat's sitting room; and she most certainly felt it when he threw her roughly onto the elegant leather sofa that dominated the area in front of the white marble fireplace. That feature caused her to do a brief double-take; marble? Hadn't his fireplace been dark brick or stone, before?

Then he started explaining things to her, coldly and precisely, and Molly felt her terror rising with every word.

He'd been speaking quite literally when he told her she was in a different world than the one she'd woken up to yesterday morning.

It was still London, England. It was still Christmas, 2011.

Nothing else was the same.

For one thing, she, Molly Hooper, didn't exist. Well, she did, but only as a long-dead corpse.

In this world, Molly Hooper had died at the tender age of twelve, victim of a house fire started when her father had fallen into a drunken stupor whilst smoking. He'd died, his only daughter had died (no Kevin here, he'd never existed); even their dog Toby had died. Molly's mother had already been dead for a year at the time, the victim of a mugging on her way home from the second job she'd been holding down in order to keep her house from being repossessed for unpaid taxes after her husband had lost his third job in six months.

Molly had been shown evidence to back up these incredible claims; newspaper articles, death certificates, employment records, everything looking very official, and she was forced to believe what she was shown because not even Sherlock – and she finally remembered how he'd verbally torn her to shreds the night before, deducing her to devastating effect at the party he clearly had no interest in attending, just before…something…happened – not even Sherlock could possibly be so cruel as to pull such an elaborate, horrifying prank. Not even in the name of proving or disproving a hypothesis.

She still couldn't remember what had happened after that agonizing moment of humiliation, whatever it was that had flung her from _there_ to _here_, to this strange world where other people she knew still existed, but in new, twisted forms she barely recognized.

Sherlock Holmes was a criminal. He'd told her so, bluntly, not allowing her reeling consciousness time to recover from the unsettling notion of her own non-existence in this world. John Watson was a surgeon with mounting gambling debts who was desperate to get himself out from under – and yet unable to resist the lure of the cards. Mrs. Hudson was Sherlock's housekeeper, not his landlady – and he'd let out a sardonic bark of laughter when she'd timidly told him who the older woman was in her own world.

Only two people seemed to be the same: Greg Lestrade was still a Detective Inspector, still an honest man, much to this Sherlock's obvious disgust and annoyance, and her old boss, Mike Stamford, was still head of Pathology at St. Bart's. It was something to cling to.

"Someone went to a great deal of trouble to bring you here, Dr. Hooper," Sherlock said once he'd fully convinced her of the truth of what she'd at first believed to be an insane theory. "Someone, somewhere, opened up a portal between our two worlds, extracted you, and deposited you here. I doubt very much the intent was to drop you so precipitously into my sitting room, but here you are and here you will remain until I have determined who is behind this."

He punctuated his words with a twitch of the riding crop he held in one hand, and she cringed away from him without fully understanding why.

He seemed to take a great deal of satisfaction in her reaction, his lips curling up into a dark smile that did nothing to crack the icy coldness in his eyes.

Molly harbored deep suspicions about that riding crop. The bruises on her thighs were long and narrow, and some part of her reacted quite viscerally to the sight of it in his hands, even though he'd made no move toward her with it.

Still, the threat was clear. So far, since waking up this horrid Christmas morning, she'd managed to avoid doing or saying anything that would provoke his wrath, but if she did…

She closed her eyes and swallowed. Hard.

She opened them again when he began speaking, one arm resting casually on the mantel, the other idly tapping the riding crop against his leg. "The majority of your injuries – the bruising on your heels and the back of your head, the needle marks and bruising on your arms, the welts on your upper thighs – are either the result of the manner in which you arrived in my flat, Dr. Watson's medical attentions, or, well..." He glanced down at the riding crop with a sly grin, confirming Molly's earlier suspicions. God, _he'd_ done that to her, he'd _hit_ her – why?

Before she could ask – if she could even work up the nerve to do so – he went on. "However, the scratches on your left leg are somewhat of a mystery. You denied knowing how you received them when I interrogated you last night; has your memory returned since then?"

He paused this time, not for effect or intimidation, but clearly expecting some kind of a response from her. She shook her head, then said "No" and shook her head a second time. "I have no idea...I have a cat but he's not big enough to scratch me that badly..."

She was babbling, and cut herself off before he could do so. He didn't even need to twitch the blasted riding crop, but she could tell by the satisfied smirk on his face that he was pleased that she'd stopped herself before he was required to do it for her.

"Those scratches, Dr. Hooper, were clearly made by a human hand. Male, with a span not merely close to mine – " he raised his free hand, fingers spread in demonstration, "but identical to my own. Is it possible that you and the Sherlock Holmes from your world were..." He fell silent, but his raised eyebrow and deepening smirk made his insinuation quite clear.

Molly felt herself flushing as she shook her head. "N-no, we never, he would never, it wasn't like that," she protested, lowering her eyes to where her hands were nervously clutching one another in her lap. "If he did grab me...maybe he was trying to...to keep me from being taken away?" she hazarded. "You said I fell from the ceiling level, so maybe something...whatever it was...he was trying to stop it," she finished, falling silent abruptly. _God, Molly, can't you get out a single sentence in this man's presence – on _any_ world – without sounding like a complete idiot?_

When she darted a glance upward, to gauge his reaction to her rambling, semi-incoherent attempt at an explanation, she was stunned to see what looked very much like a combination of surprise and approval in his eyes. "Well, Dr. Hooper, perhaps you aren't as hopelessly ordinary as I thought," he drawled, eyes raking her from head to foot as if he was properly seeing her for the first time.

She lowered her head again, feeling the flush that had started to fade rising back up to redden her skin once again. As it did so she found herself becoming intensely aware of every ache, every bruise and pain in her body.

Including, unfortunately, a rather insistent sensation of pressure on her bladder. "I need to – can I use your bathroom?" she asked timidly when it seemed Sherlock had nothing further to add.

He nodded and watched as she managed to pull herself to her feet without assistance this time, although she winced as she padded down the hall toward the bathroom.

As she did so she pondered her situation as best she could when her head still felt as if it were stuffed with cotton batting and her mind was still trying to absorb the new – and increasingly unpleasant – reality she found herself in. It was clear that she was not free to do as she wished, to leave this flat and this version of Sherlock far behind. In fact, if she tried anything of the sort she knew without any doubt that she would be punished for it. The guards Sherlock had indicated made that abundantly cleared.

After she reached the bathroom she closed the door but didn't dare lock it, then took care of easing her discomfort. Afterward she forced herself to look at her reflection in the mirror as she washed her hands and face and wished desperately for a tooth-brush.

"Left-hand drawer." She flinched at the sound of his voice on the other side of the door, hardly recognizing her reflection as she automatically opened the drawer and found an unopened travel kit containing a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, unscented deodorant and a comb. There was also a container of band-aids, which she applied to the scratches on her leg after disinfecting them with the peroxide she found in the medicine cabinet.

She heard Sherlock pacing as she hurried through her ablutions, feeling only marginally better with clean face and teeth and somewhat less tangled hair. She'd wrestled the bow free, tossing it and the hairpins into the small bin beneath the sink, then turned and made herself open the door.

He was waiting at the end of the short hall, hands behind his back, gazing down at his shoes (black leather, highly polished, enormously expensive-looking) when she stepped out of the bathroom. He didn't bother looking up, just turned and reentered the sitting room.

Her breath caught in her throat as she saw he was still holding the riding crop. Didn't he ever put the damned thing down? What did he think she was going to do, attack him? Wrestle him to the floor, hit him over the head with a piece of crockery?

Even if she did manage any of those things (the crockery being the most likely, if she could get her hands on some), how was she supposed to get past his guards? Where was she supposed to go if she did manage to get past them? If what Sherlock told her was true – and she believed him, every word, feeling the truth deep in her gut – then she didn't really exist, had nowhere to go.

No, she was well and truly trapped in this on-going nightmare.

And about to discover just how horrific a nightmare it could be.

He beckoned to her imperiously, and she moved closer, stopping only a few feet away from him.

"Remove your clothing."

Molly gaped at Sherlock as he spoke, his expression unreadable. She wasn't entirely sure she'd heard him correctly. "Wh – what?" she stuttered as she continued to stare at him from just inside the hall entrance.

His expression darkened. She'd heard that saying before, read it in books, but never actually seen such a thing on another living person's face. Until now.

His lips tightened, his eyes narrowed, a flush rose on his cheeks, and he paced right up to her, stopping only inches away. When she made to stumble away from him, to give herself some breathing room, he grabbed her roughly by the arm, forcing her to remain in place. "I do not like to repeat myself, Dr. Hooper," he said between clenched teeth, shaking her for emphasis. "Remove. Your. Clothing."

Then he let her go, stepped back, and continued to watch her as she stood there like an idiot, gaping at him. Terror rooted her to the spot; why did he want her to…what was he going to…

She screamed as he raised his hand and brought the riding crop down on her shoulder. Hard. Bruisingly hard.

She continued to scream as he proceeded to beat her to within an inch of her life, methodically, mercilessly, until her exposed skin was a bruised, bloody mess, one eye swollen shut, her lips cracked and bleeding, her throat raw from screaming. When she finally collapsed to the floor, he dropped the riding crop, knelt by her side, and proceeded to remove her clothing himself, showing no signs of emotion as he did so.

When he finished, she watched through her one good eye, naked and curled into herself, tears dribbling down her cheek, as he folded the dress, piled the rest of her clothing and other belongings on top of it and placed it in a brown paper bag. She continued to watch as he disappeared from view, then reemerged with the silver bow and hairpins in his hand and dropped them on top of the rest of her belongings before taking the bag to the door of the flat and exiting without a single glance backwards.

She listened dully as he walked to the edge of the landing and called for Moran to come up. She could hear him giving instructions, not bothering to lower his voice, clearly not caring whether she heard him or not. "Have these brought to the lab in Brixton for analysis. And tell Anderson none of his usual half-assed work, or this time I _will_ inform his wife of his infidelity with the young lady from over the chippy where he habitually buys lunch."

She heard Moran murmur some kind of response, then closed her good eye, unable to bear the sight of Sherlock striding back into the flat. She heard the door click shut, heard his footsteps approaching, and cringed away from his hands when he reached for her.

He ignored her feeble struggles and whimpers of pain, lifting her in his arms without a word and carrying her to his bedroom. He deposited her on top of the duvet before ordering her to look at him.

She did as he commanded, terrified of the consequences if she didn't obey. He was gazing down at her with that same dispassionate expression on his face that he'd worn when he beat her. "I hope I have made myself perfectly clear, Dr. Hooper, on the subject of repeating myself."

She nodded, but he seemed to expect something more, so she croaked out: "Yes, perfectly clear."

"That was a warning. Question me, disobey, make me repeat myself when I have told you to do something, and the next time I won't hold back. Broken bones can be mended, after all."

Then he turned and left, closing the door behind him. Molly heard the sound of a key turning in the lock but still waited tensely for something else to happen.

Nothing did. He left her there, and eventually she cried herself to an exhausted, pain-haunted sleep.


	3. Interludes

_A/N: Thanks again to everyone for reviewing, and special thanks to moonmama for her wonderful betaing skills, and to Adi Who Is Also Mou for the inspiration. :) In this chapter we check in on some other players, enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 3: Interludes **

_Interlude One – Here_

Sherlock was pacing. It was all he'd done, all day long. Pacing and smoking, smoking and pacing. Occasionally pausing to gaze out the window – at what, John had no idea.

It was 4:00 in the afternoon, and had been, hands down, the worst Christmas he'd ever endured short of the last one he'd spent in Afghanistan. And that won out only due to the fact that he'd been in the middle of a fucking _war_. People had died that day, he'd had to piece together more than one mate who would go home to spend the rest of their lives with scars and missing limbs and damaged eyesight, sights even his adrenalin-junkie soul found sickening. So yeah, that particular Christmas was the worst.

This, however, was a close second.

Molly Hooper had been missing since that astounding…whatever it was…at the Christmas party last night. Not that the party had been going well up to that point, certainly not for Molly. Not after Sherlock unleashed his devastating series of deductions upon her, only to realize, too late, exactly what he was deducing.

Her crush on him.

And then the noise had started, the deep whine, the thrumming hum that set the room to vibrating, dashing more than one glass to the floor in pieces as the hum magnified to the point of pain, as a whirling vortex of some sort opened in the air above Molly Hooper and sucked her up, lifting her from the floor like a fucking tornado or something, while they all froze for far too long before acting, shocked into immobility by the impossibility manifesting itself right in front of them.

All but Sherlock. He hadn't been the closest to her, but he'd moved first, grabbing for her with a desperation John recognized – too late – as being caused by Sherlock's accurate deduction that Molly was about to be stolen away from them.

Which, of course, was exactly what happened. Although his friend had managed to grab her leg as she was yanked off her feet and into the air, screams pouring from her throat the entire time, whatever force had taken hold of Molly Hooper wasn't about to let her go. Sherlock's hand had dug in; John had seen the scratches ripping through the delicate fabric of her stocking, and then Sherlock was on the floor, staring up along with the rest of them as the swirling vortex vanished as abruptly as it had appeared – taking Molly with it.

If it had been a magic act, John would have been the first to admit he'd been suitably impressed.

As it was, all he could feel, nearly twenty-four hours later, was a sort of numb shock.

He was too stunned to even complain about Sherlock's incessant smoking. Too stunned to do anything but sit in the chair he'd fallen into around noontime, after Mycroft Holmes' men had been and gone, after Lestrade's SOCO team had gone over every inch of the flat, Sherlock for once standing by and saying nothing as Anderson and his men did their jobs, disbelief clearly written on their features at the explanation they'd been given for their presence.

Hell, John couldn't blame them. He could barely believe it himself, and he'd witnessed the entire goddamned thing.

As had his date, Jeanette – who'd had to have a sedative administered and be escorted to London Royal Hospital for an overnight stay. Happy Christmas, darling, aren't you glad you came to the party?

He knew he should check on her, but couldn't bring himself to move from his chair. Her parents and sister had been informed that she'd had a shock of some kind – he had no idea what official explanation Mycroft's people had concocted but knew it would be plausible and that Jeanette would be gently pressed to back it up once she was awake and coherent again.

He couldn't spare the energy to waste on her, even if they'd had a perfectly decent relationship up to this point. No, somehow he doubted he'd ever see her again, unless it was to properly end things between them. It was clear she didn't handle shocks well; she'd been the only one to launch into hysterics after Molly vanished, the only one not to keep her head about her – even Mrs. Hudson had handled herself with a minimum of panic and fuss, and she was old enough to be Jeanette's mother, for Christ's sake! Not that this was the sort of danger he and Sherlock usually faced in the course of their criminal investigations, but clearly his date was not cut out for anything out of the ordinary.

Then again, who was? Who could possibly know how to react when something that normally would only be seen during an episode of Doctor Who suddenly appeared in your own goddamned flat?

He could barely muster the energy to deal with his own confusion, let alone Jeanette's. He simply could not stop his thoughts from circling obsessively around the sheer fucking insanity of Molly Hooper's disappearance.

Where had she gone, what had happened to her – and why _her_, for Christ's sake? If this…phenomenon…was the result of some enemy of Sherlock's exacting some James Bond super-villain form of revenge, why take Molly, harmless, gentle Molly? He'd wager everything he owned that she'd never hurt another human being in her life (aside from, of course, cutting up dead bodies in the course of her job but surely no one could take exception to _that_).

Perhaps this unknown person had taken her by mistake, had been aiming for himself or Sherlock, or even Lestrade? Or did they think that taking Molly would somehow give them leverage over his flatmate? Was there going to be a ransom demand sometime in the near future?

All those questions had been raised during the course of the night and far into the wee hours of the morning, but no conclusions had been reached. Anderson's sole contribution to the ongoing discussion had been to suggest she'd been abducted by aliens, but without further evidence – such as a space ship hovering in the air above Baker Street or the fingerprints of little green men inside the flat – no one was willing to take his suggestion seriously.

At least, John Watson wasn't willing to do so.

When they got her back – and he refused to believe in the possibility of any other outcome, not with Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes both putting their considerable intellects (not to mention the full weight of the British goddamned _government_) to the matter – he was going to write it up in his blog. If Molly allowed it. He would be sure to ask her permission. He even had a title: _The Case of the Vanishing Pathologist_. It had a nice ring to it. She was sure to appreciate taking on a starring role in a bona fide Sherlock Holmes mystery.

Because of course they _would_ retrieve her, alive and unharmed. They had to.

"We'll get her back."

He didn't realize he'd spoken the words aloud, the first thing he'd said since he and Sherlock had been left alone in the flat, until the other man turned his head to face him.

His face set, inflexible as stone and about as revealing, Sherlock replied with a simple, "Yes."

Then he turned around and resumed his pose in front of the window, lighting another cigarette and staring moodily out onto Baker Street.

**oOo**

Sherlock trained his gaze on the discreet government vehicles parked across the street at his brother's behest, even as he heard John sigh and rise to his feet. He listened with half an ear as his flatmate mumbled something about trying to get some sleep – advice Lestrade and Mycroft and even Mrs. Hudson had pressed on the two of them as they each left for their various destinations – and wearily trudged up the stairs to his room.

Good. John would feel better, be sharper in mind and reflexes, after allowing his exhausted body to refresh itself. Even a sleep interrupted by nightmares, which he was bound to have given the preposterously melodramatic situation in which they currently found themselves, would be better than the nothing he'd had since the night before last.

As for himself, Sherlock knew it would be days before he would feel the need to sleep again. Possibly longer.

It wasn't simply because they were on a case, however intriguing it might be. Normally a mystery like this one – a woman disappearing into thin air right in front of a roomful of witnesses – would be like a fabulous Christmas gift for him. Unfortunately, in this case there was a personal aspect to the whole thing that was more than a little bit bothersome. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, the nails still jagged from where they'd bit into Molly's skin, tearing through the silk stockings and into her flesh hard enough to draw blood.

He'd allowed himself to be swabbed, in case there was something about Molly's blood or DNA or skin that held an answer to what had happened to her. Doubtful, but every avenue had to be explored, no matter how unlikely.

He'd almost had her, but the strange energy field had been stronger. Not strong enough to spirit him away as well, but strong enough to wrench Molly from his grasp. To take her away before he had the opportunity to make the real, sincere apology he'd been formulating in his mind after hearing her reaction to his (he saw, now that it was far too late) devastating series of deductions.

He hadn't intended to tear Molly down like that; he was just doing what he always did – making observations and deductions, and perhaps there'd been some element of swagger in his display, some part of him seeking a distraction, but cruelty to Molly had never been his aim.

It had, however, been what he accomplished.

Not that an apology would have kept her from being taken, of course, but some part of his mind, a part he generally ignored, especially when on a case, refused to be silent on the matter. Molly had been taken before he could apologize. That was important. It was...wrong.

He made another desperate attempt to focus his considerable mental abilities on her extraordinary abduction rather than his own discomfort, methodically going over the events of the evening immediately following her disappearance.

He hadn't hesitated to contact his brother once it became clear that Molly Hooper was no longer in the flat. She hadn't vanished from the sitting room and reappeared in the lavatory or John's room or his own en suite. She wasn't in the unused basement flat, or Mrs. Hudson's, or the attic, or anywhere else in the building or its immediate vicinity. They'd conducted a thorough search of the premises while DI Lestrade called for backup and a forensics team and he had himself rousted Mycroft from whatever tedious Christmas Eve event he was attending, not even bothering to needle his brother as he did so, instead opting to be brief and to the point in his message.

_Woman literally vanished from my flat. Come at once. SH_

And miracle of miracles, Mycroft had done exactly that, bringing a team of his own forensic experts with him.

Unfortunately all the help that had been summoned had so far proven utterly useless.

No one could come to any reasonable conclusions regarding Molly Hooper's disappearance – he, for one, flat-out refused to take Anderson's extraterrestrial abduction theory seriously – and she remained missing. She hadn't burned up in an act of spontaneous combustion (Sgt. Donovan's equally useless contribution), the attendees of the party hadn't undergone some kind of mass hypnosis or the hallucinatory effects of some kind of drug either ingested or delivered by means of aerosol, as John had (somewhat pathetically) offered up.

No, this was no Baskerville case. What had happened to Molly had been _real_. Outside the norm, but very, very real.

Now it was as much a matter of discovering who had taken her and why, as it was about how she'd vanished in the first place.

No one had contacted them with threats or ransom demands; her brother in Melbourne hadn't heard anything (and had been assured he would be informed as soon as anything was learned), nothing had been discovered, no answers had been reached, what few deductions that could be made, had been made.

Her flat had been investigated as well; although her cat remained where she'd left him (and temporarily handed over to the custody of the elderly neighbor who usually helped Molly out when her shifts ran long or she went on one of her rare holidays), Molly herself wasn't there. She hadn't mysteriously reappeared at St. Bart's or any of the numerous other city hospitals. Or police stations.

Or morgues, alive or dead.

And the last words he'd spoken to her could be characterized as unkind, at best. Damn him and his need to be cleverer than everyone else in the room.

He blamed Lestrade for his overreaction, actually, combined with the stress of the Adler case – which had dropped to a very low priority indeed, although if there continued to be no actions he could take in the ongoing search for Molly, he might be forced to return his attention to the matter out of sheer desperation.

He dismissed the dominatrix's plight from his mind with ease, choosing to focus on Lestrade. The man had goggled when Molly removed her coat to reveal the form-fitting black dress she'd donned for the evening, his interest – and correlating body parts – clearly aroused by her attire. Sherlock's heart had squeezed painfully in his chest at the observation of another man blatantly appreciating her physical attributes – another reaction he refused to examine – irritating him into the deliberately cutting analysis of her motivations he'd then initiated.

_Miss Hooper has love on her mind._

He'd regretted every cold, unfeeling word as soon as he did what he should have done in the first place: read the tag on the carefully wrapped present.

It had been confiscated by Mycroft, along with the other gifts she'd brought and her coat and purse, brought to some secret government lab for extensive analysis. For once his brother's high-handedness raised no corresponding resistance in Sherlock; if Mycroft hadn't taken Molly's belongings, Sherlock would have demanded he do so, at least after he'd examined them himself for clues.

But he hadn't done that, recognizing that for once he was well and truly out of his depth. It was a disconcerting feeling, to know exactly how everyone around him usually felt. It raised empathy in him for one of the few times he could remember since childhood.

He hated it. Hated the reason for all this to have happened in the first place.

Hated himself for not being smart enough, for not being perceptive enough, to be able to deduce Molly's disappearance on his own and find a way to bring her back safely from wherever she'd been taken. For not having found a way to keep her from being taken in the first place.

Hated that all he could do right now was wait for his brother to contact him with whatever information he'd gathered, as he'd promised to do (not with words, only part of the communication between the Holmes brother ever needed to be with words).

The forgotten cigarette in his hand burned down to ash, and he dropped it, not caring if it scorched the hardwood floor as he ground it beneath his heel and automatically pulled another one from the pack resting on the windowsill. He lit it just as automatically, eyes still on the government vehicles parked across the street.

Restless.

Waiting.

_Interlude Two – There_

"Sherlock, you know I don't like it when you contact me directly. People will talk."

"People do little else, brother dear," Sherlock replied, sounding as bored as he usually did when he and Mycroft – rising star in British politics and the next Prime Minister if both their plans for the future worked out the way they expected them to – were forced into close contact with one another.

Before Mycroft could demand an explanation, he handed over the manilla envelope containing the flash drive, photographs and paper printouts of the data he'd collected on Molly Hooper over the past week.

"What's this, some new blackmail project you want to drag me into?"

Sherlock shook his head and lit a cigarette, deliberately blowing the smoke toward his brother's PA – and not-so-secret mistress. His wife Petra put up with the woman for two reasons only: she was a flawless assistant in spite of her eye-candy appearance, and she satisfied her husband's appetites in a manner his wife had stopped enjoying two years into their fifteen-year – and still childless – marriage.

None of which was relevant at the moment. Sherlock waited patiently, a faint smile on his lips as his brother scanned the documents he'd been given, paying close attention to the DNA analysis and two sets of medical records Sherlock had placed on top of the pile to indicate their importance.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he glanced over at his brother. "I trust this isn't some sort of...joke...brother."

Sherlock shook his head and dropped his half-smoked cigarette onto the floor, ignoring the PA's pained inhalation of breath as it smoldered a dark mark into the expensive white carpet of her flat. Mycroft had agreed to meet him here one week after Christmas, eight days after Molly Hooper's arrival, only because Sherlock had threatened to walk into his Downing Street offices in full daylight with an entourage of reporters if he kept ignoring his requests for a meeting.

Clearly he was regretting having delayed that meeting for so long. Good. "If I'm understanding these medical reports, you have somehow come across a living woman who is verified as an exact DNA match for a girl who died at the age of twelve. Furthermore," he flipped through the appended report from the physicist Sherlock had "convinced" to perform certain illicit tests upon Dr. Hooper, "this report asserts that not only is the DNA of the two subjects identical, but that the second subject appears to have originated in a universe other than our own."

Sherlock nodded as his brother once again met his gaze. "She vibrates at a completely different quantum level than we do. Proof, I think you would agree, that perhaps some of your top-secret government experiments have actually succeeded for a change."

Mycroft's eyebrow raised again. "Surely you're not implying that the British government is wasting money by investigating something as ridiculous as the possibility of the existence of alternate realities."

"No, I'm coming right out and stating it," Sherlock replied, his voice no longer bored but as intense and focused as his gaze. "Furthermore, I want access. I need to know if Dr. Hooper was sent to me deliberately, and by whom. Among other questions," he added. "I'm sure you've already ascertained the significance of the DNA samples taken from the scratches on her left leg."

Mycroft looked affronted. "Of course," he snapped. "Don't be tiresome, Sherlock. It's your DNA, but if you'd inflicted the wounds yourself it would hardly be significant. Presumably you see this as further proof of this woman's extraordinary origins."

Sherlock simply nodded at the computer disk he'd given his brother. "Watch that, read through the remainder of the documentation, then contact me. I'm confident you'll come to the same conclusions I have."

"If your claims are true – and far be it from me to call you a liar, little brother – it would be in the Empire's best interest if the young lady in question were to end up in the government's hands," Mycroft interposed smoothly as Sherlock turned and made as if to leave.

He'd stiffened at his brother's (unnecessary) reminder that he'd never exactly been the most truthful person, especially when it came to family. However, now was not the time to get into another boring debate over which brother was going to end up with more power out of the two of them. Instead, he chose to answer Mycroft's not-request. "That may occur. Eventually. But not," Sherlock added with a dark stare, "until such time as I am ready to give her over to your _tender_ care. And rest assured, brother dear, that if she somehow vanishes from _my_ care, I will know exactly whom to seek vengeance against."

"Fine." Mycroft's voice was dry as the Sahara. "We'll do this your way for now. But if she turns out to be any kind of danger to the Empire, or to be more involved than you apparently give her credit for, even you won't be able to keep me from taking her into custody."

A curt nod was the only response Sherlock gave him as he turned and exited Anthea's flat.

He grinned to himself as he heard her complaining to Mycroft about the damage to her carpet, followed swiftly by the sound of his brother's hand as he slapped her into silence, no doubt irritated by her interruption of him at work. The faithless bitch deserved it and so much more; perhaps he should let Mycroft know of her indiscretions with Irene Adler before he'd had the other woman killed?

Hmm, on the other hand there was very little that escaped his brother's notice. No doubt her usefulness as a PA outweighed her eclectic – not to mention societally frowned-upon – taste in lovers.

The door closed behind him, and the two remaining people in the room effectively vanished from his thoughts. He'd given Molly permission to watch the telly, and was looking forward to deducing her no doubt horrified reactions to what passed for entertainment in her new world.

_Interlude Three – New Scotland Yard (There)_

The sound of a desk phone ringing, then a click. "Lestrade."

"It's me."

A brief silence, then (voice low and tense): "Breaking cover a little early, aren't you?"

"I know I'm taking a risk, but it's worth it, trust me. There have been…developments."

"I'm listening."

Silence on Lestrade's end of the phone for a long time, then a disbelieving: "What the _fuck_?! You'd better have some kind of proof, cause believe me, if you're having me on…" Silence again on Lestrade's part, longer this time. Then: "All right. Fine. You say it's legit, then it's legit. Christ." Another pause. "Right. You make the drop, get us the information, we'll take it from our end. But for fuck's sake, don't get caught. This is, yeah, an interesting development, but I still wanna get that bastard, you hear me? I don't care if the fate of the entire fucking universe is at stake, it won't matter unless we get Holmes."

The sound of the phone slamming down on the receiver.

The sound of a heavily indrawn breath (and what might be a man's face being palmed while he gathered his thoughts).

The sound of a phone being dialed.

(Possibly the sound of a criminal empire finally – _finally_! – coming down.)


	4. Proficiency Exam

_A/N: The usual thanks and disclaimers apply. Change in dynamics in this chapter, be warned!_

* * *

**Chapter 4: Proficiency Exam**

**January 22, 2012 – There**

"Get your coat. The car is waiting."

Molly looked up from the book she'd been perusing – one of Sherlock's many chemistry manuals, and one of the few books she found readable in the flat – and dutifully put it down on the coffee table before rising to her feet and reaching for her coat.

As she slipped into her heels she brooded on how obedient she'd become. She'd been in this terrible place for a month, and hated and feared every minute of it, although she'd learned to school herself into an external neutrality even when her heart was hammering anxiously in her chest, as it was now.

They were going out. So far, going out hadn't meant anything good.

"Wh – where are we going?"

The question slipped out as she buttoned up her coat, and she cringed away automatically, one eye on the ever-present riding crop in Sherlock's left hand. It didn't so much as twitch, however, which meant he didn't mind her asking. Thank God. He enjoyed seeing her cowed and afraid of him, but he loathed it when she stammered. But if she couldn't control it when in the presence of her own, relatively benign, Sherlock, how could she possibly be expected to do so when in the presence of this much colder, much more dangerous (she stopped short of using the word "evil" in her mind) man?

"St. Bart's Hospital," he replied, surprising her by actually responding to her question and not simply ignoring it. "We have an appointment."

An appointment. For what, she wondered as an icy fear flooded her veins. Something relatively harmless, she prayed. More blood to be drawn, more DNA to be analyzed, more CT scans or another full-body MRI would be bearable. Even another visit to the physicist who had apparently confirmed Sherlock's hypothesis of her origins would be tolerable compared to some of the other tests she'd been forced to endure.

She shuddered inwardly as she recalled the unpleasant nature of some of those tests. So far she'd been taken to three different London hospitals and two private labs, and all of the visits had been either uncomfortable bordering on unpleasant or downright painful.

The only consistent element – besides fear and pain and frequently invasive procedures, including one where several of her eggs were extracted (without her permission, needless to say, but also without her putting up any kind of a fight over it) – to these visits was that they were all overseen by John Watson.

She couldn't say she'd come to know him well, either in this world or her own, but she knew enough to recognize how different "her" John was from this man. Oh, this one wasn't a bad man, not like Sherlock was, not a criminal. Just…weak. He gambled, admitted to owing thousands and thousands of pounds (the money here was identical to what she was used to back home; pounds in England, dollars in America and Australia, except there was no European Union and therefore no Euros on the Continent) to various gambling establishments that all conveniently happened to be owned by Sherlock Holmes. So he did as the crime lord told him, and his debts were cleared, only to pile up almost immediately after. The man absolutely couldn't stay away from the cards, and Sherlock actively encouraged him to continue in his vice. It was utterly despicable – and from what she'd gleaned, just another example of "business as usual" on this topsy-turvy world.

Still, she found herself pathetically pleased that it was a semi-trusted face behind the surgical mask on these visits. Even if this John Watson had no idea who she was, it still helped that she knew him, recognized him, remembered the kindly man he was on her own world. It was something. Even though he'd made it clear that he had no interest in learning anything about her, past the medical information he was gathering for "Mr. Holmes."

Everyone called him that. "Mr. Holmes." Not "Sherlock." Still, she couldn't stop thinking of him that way in her mind; he'd always been Sherlock to her and always would be, apparently, no matter what horrific things this version of him did.

Thank God he allowed the familiarity; once she realized that everyone else referred to him by his surname, she'd made a conscious effort to do so as well, only to be given unexpected permission to use his first name – within limits. "You are obviously used to calling _him_ by his first name, and I have no objections to it when we are in private. However," he'd added, his voice dropping to an arctic freeze, "you will accord me the proper respect and call me Mr. Holmes in public. If you do not, I can assure you there will be…consequences."

Then he'd caressed the riding crop as she cowered away from him. And he'd smiled, a shark's smile, all teeth and hunger and she'd shuddered, hard, and waited tensely to see if he intended to deliver one of his "lessons" to press the point home.

She always had a bruise on her somewhere, generally the tops of her thighs or backs of her legs or shoulders, for slights or lapses of attention or just because he wanted to, as he put it, "remind her of her place." But this time he merely placed a hand at the small of her back as he always did when escorting her out of the flat.

That single hand on her back was almost worse than the beatings. It evoked comfort and familiarity, even though she knew it was only another, more subtle way for him to control her. She always stiffened when she felt his fingers against the small of her back, and she knew he always smirked even if he offered no comment.

It was the only liberty he took that could be construed in even the remotest manner as sexual in nature. Even his beatings were delivered with too much detachment to be mistaken as sexually motivated (she'd looked carefully for signs of arousal and seen absolutely none, the few times she managed to keep her wits enough about her to do so).

A month ago, she would never have believed it to be a relief that at least one aspect of the original Sherlock she wanted to change – his indifference to women in general, and to herself in particular – was the one she was most pathetically grateful for in this world.

It didn't stop her worrying about it, of course. Nothing could stop her brain from buzzing, her thoughts from chasing themselves in circles all day and well into the night. She wasn't sleeping well, but politely (_always politely with this man, say nothing in a sharp tone that might be construed as disobedience or face the consequences_) refused the sleeping draughts he offered.

She refused all the recreational drugs he offered as well, with equal politeness, and so far he hadn't pushed it. She'd learned he was just as interested in conducting experiments as her Sherlock had been, although with far more sinister results in mind. Since he didn't appear interested in actually seeing her high or zoned out, she'd worked out that he offered the drugs simply to gauge her response to the request. It was another way to put her on edge as well; now that she knew he had access to such things (of course he did, he was a criminal and it was insanely easy to acquire illicit substances on her own world, let alone this one) she found herself wondering uneasily if she might one day be given a dose of Ecstasy or LSD or something even more exotic in her morning cup of tea.

She wouldn't put it past him. Every now and then he would casually mention some interesting results from an experiment he'd performed on some poor junkie, watching carefully to see how much revulsion he could provoke her into revealing – and how much fear that one day he would decide to do the same to her.

And there wouldn't be a damned thing she could do to stop him. Oh, she wouldn't just knuckle under and let him inject her or feed her pills, but no matter how hard she struggled, she simply wasn't physically strong enough or familiar enough with self-defense techniques to be effective against him. When she got home (she ignored the tiny voice in her mind that whispered "if") she was signing up for Krav Maga classes. And maybe Greg or John would be willing to teach her how to shoot a pistol…

One day, she told herself as they reached the car waiting for them at the curb. One day she would be free and all this would be nothing more than a distant, unpleasant (_horrible_) memory.

She settled into the car, hands folded in her lap, eyes trained out the window. Avoiding _him_ as best she could. Not that even that much defiance would be allowed; a single tap of the riding crop on the seat between them after he entered the car and she found herself scooting closer to him, turning her head to not-quite face him, eyes nervously trained on the leather crop, fingers trembling. Just like a well-trained dog, she thought bitterly. She'd only been here a month and already he controlled everything about her life – everything but her thoughts and (sometimes) emotions.

She ate what she was given, drank what she was given, and wore the clothes he'd picked out for her – clothes that fit her almost _too_ well; tight, short skirts and low-cut tops that revealed a great deal of her admittedly modest cleavage, but then, the demi-cup push-up bras she now wore under those tops worked wonders. And she still blushed to think about the thong-style knickers she'd been given; even if this Sherlock seemed just as indifferent to her sexually as the real one, he still dressed her from the inside out to match this world's expectations for what all reasonably well-formed and attractive women wore.

That was one of the things that had truly cemented her plight, her isolation, in her mind. Women on this world were openly viewed as sex objects, even women in professional capacities. It had been quite a shock to see a heavily made-up bleached blonde in a skimpy uniform that screamed "slutty nurse Halloween costume" on her first trip to a hospital – and an even worse shock to realize that this was just how the nurses were expected to dress here. Except the older ones, of course; even this world wasn't twisted enough to expect women in their 60s to dress like 18-year-old tramps.

At least the clothing Sherlock procured for her suited her figure and was somewhat age-appropriate. She would be grateful for whatever crumbs of dignity she was allowed – such as the fact that even if other men ogled her, due to the company she kept lewd advances were rarely offered up the way they were to virtually every other woman she'd seen that fell roughly between the ages of twelve and fifty.

It wasn't just the women in London, either; her few early (and quickly abandoned) attempts at watching telly to pass the time had shown that not only was it the norm here, but apparently the world over. All television was virtually nothing but thinly veiled porn masquerading as the more normal fare she was used to: talk shows and reality television and serials alike all slanted alarmingly toward sex and violence (tilted over the edge of what she would ever consider acceptable for general consumption). Even the kiddie shows were horrifying little exercises in reinforcing how acceptable this sick society found it to belittle the female half of the species, to bully those weaker than yourself and how any means of getting ahead were acceptable. Indoctrinating the next generation into horrid little copies of the current lot of adults.

Not wanting to believe that what she was seeing could possibly be the whole story, knowing how television could be overly sensationalized, about a week into her captivity she worked up the nerve to ask Sherlock if there was a history book available for her to read, just for the chance to get a different perspective. He didn't mind her asking questions, as long as she wasn't interrupting his thoughts or activities and showed him the proper deference when doing so. Which, although she railed inwardly at herself for being such a little coward, she always, _always_ did.

Instead of procuring a book, however, he'd made a quick phone call, then taken her to the British Museum, closed to the public on Sundays but open this time just for him. He'd followed her as she'd wandered from exhibit to exhibit, as she became increasingly horrified by the nature of the world into which she'd so inadvertently tumbled.

It was a bit like she imagined a Nazi Museum might have been, had they won the war – which, contrary to the evidence she'd been given, they hadn't. The draw that had resulted was nearly as bad as them winning would have been, in Molly's opinion. Neo-fascists had risen to power in Great Britain – which was still a colonial power, as were most of the other European nations – and it was sickening, absolutely sickening how various historical atrocities were lauded in the museum that on her world was dedicated to art and historical artifacts.

Instead, she was treated – if that was the correct word – to exhibits dedicated to the multiple wars England had fought – and won – against America, which never had gained its independence and existed only in fragmented form now; the brutal treatment of the Boers in their own bid for independence (not that it had been a shining moment in "her" England's past, but at least her people had the decency to be ashamed of their ancestors' behavior); an entire exhibit celebrating the triumphant Opium Wars, atrocity after atrocity, barbarism after barbarism piling up until she thought she was going to be sick, right there on the polished marble floor.

She hadn't asked for further information after that. It was too disheartening.

The remainder of that week had been spent in a depressed haze, with her knowing that if Sherlock dangled drugs in front of her, she would have probably taken them. She'd even had her first ever suicidal thoughts as visions of living her entire life out in this horrible place paraded through her mind. Only the desperate hope that someone (_the real Sherlock, please God_) must be trying to find a way to bring her back kept her from slitting her wrists when she was alone in the flat.

Her mind returned to the present with a jolt as Sherlock started speaking; terrified that he'd said something to her, asked her to do something, she turned to look at him, only to see that he was on his mobile. He flashed her an irritated look and she hurriedly returned her attention to the passing scenery, such as it was. London in winter looked much the same here as it did at home.

So did St. Bart's, when they pulled up outside of it. Sherlock snapped out a command to the driver, waited for Moran to open the door, then started walking toward the entrance once Molly had stepped onto the sidewalk.

She hurried to catch him up, having learned (the usual, painful way) that he preferred that she stay close by his side on these visits, at least until he handed her over to John Watson.

As the doors slid open to admit them to the chilly foyer, she chanced another question, gambling that he wouldn't start laying into her in such a public place. "Can you…do you mind…"

"I wish to see you perform an autopsy."

She blinked and felt her mind go blank at the unexpected answer. Of all the things he could have said (_we're here_ _to run more tests on you, because I need to smother some irritating infants, a doctor requires a beating for selling drugs without giving me my percentage_), that was the last thing she would have guessed. "Why?" she couldn't stop herself from asking as they made their way down the achingly familiar hall that led to the elevators they would need to take to reach the morgue.

He didn't answer, merely turned a _how stupid can you be_ look on her that reminded her so much of her own Sherlock (not that he had ever been _hers_, not in any way that counted, but she felt an automatic possessiveness toward the people and places of her own world now) that she felt her heart clench at the sight.

Breathing slowly and deeply in order to keep herself under control, she forced herself to concentrate on what was clearly an obvious answer to her question. Obvious to Sherlock, at any rate. And on either world, obvious to him wasn't necessarily obvious to any other living being.

Still, she had to try. And when the answer came to her, it was, indeed, so blindingly obvious that she could have smacked herself for not getting it right away.

"Well done, Dr. Hooper," Sherlock said with in a trace of sarcasm in his dry, clipped tones. "Yes, I wish to observe your self-proclaimed skills first hand. To assess them. It's possible that, if you are in any way adequate at what you were trained to do for a living on your own world, you could be useful to me as more than a mere object of scientific interest."

She swallowed at those last words. Hard. Stared straight ahead until she heard the soft _thwack_ of the riding crop against the side of his leg.

That sound meant "look at me." It meant "do as I say or there will be unpleasant consequences."

Her life had been so much easier when all she had to deal with was unintentionally dating a psychopathic serial killer. Who knew there would come a day when she would look back at her time with Jim Moriarty with something approaching nostalgia?

She turned her head and met Sherlock's gaze, keeping her eyes steadily on his although she could feel her lower lip trembling and had to force herself not to allow her hands to clench into nervous fists. He did not take kindly to any kind of body language from her that might remotely hint at rebellion. The nasty bruise slowly healing on her left wrist – she'd raised her hand too quickly two days ago, too close to his face, when the unbearableness of her situation had set her to agitated pacing – was proof of that.

He didn't say anything further, seemed satisfied at her show of obedience, enough to turn his head from hers and lift his mobile to his ear as they continued down the corridor, firing off a rapid series of commands to whoever awaited on the other end of the line. Wiggins, she guessed, the rat-faced IT tech who'd been allowed to show her the footage of her arrival here, or his assistant to whom Sherlock spent a great deal of time dictating instructions over the same mobile.

The sight of that footage of her arrival had been a shock; yes, she'd been given far too much painful evidence that this was not her world, but to actually witness the catastrophic nature of her arrival here had been jarring, to say the least. She'd watched, over and over again, as a whirling vortex opened up in Sherlock's sitting room, seemingly out of nowhere, and her own unconscious form was unceremoniously dropped to the floor.

It still unnerved her to think about it. Sherlock's theory was that some physicist somewhere had discovered a way to manipulate the heretofore theoretical barrier between quantum realities, broken through said barrier, and then found a way to transfer a person from there to here.

_You were dragged from your world and dropped into mine._

It was so incredibly Doctor Who, that theory – and yet it fit the facts, few though they were.

Someone had brought her here, which meant, theoretically at least, that someone could send her back home.

And anything anyone could do on this world, if that was where the scientific breakthrough had occurred, could be duplicated in her own world. She had no doubts about that whatsoever.

And if anyone could find who held the key to her return, it would be Sherlock Holmes. The _real_ one, the one she missed with a physical ache. Even at his most bitingly sarcastic, even after the terrible, awful things he'd said to her at the Christmas party, she'd convinced herself that the reason he'd fallen so abruptly silent in the middle of _deducing_ her had been out of remorse, an emotion she was equally convinced that this version was incapable of feeling.

Sherlock would find her. He would rescue her and bring her home and she would never, ever complain about anything again for the rest of her life.

**oOo**

The man walking next to her allowed himself a tiny smirk as he returned his mobile to his jacket pocket and deduced every single thought running through her terrified little mind. What a rabbit she was, Dr. Molly Hooper, and yet she was a rabbit who occasionally exhibited unexpected strengths. She no longer cried out when he hit her, for example, just bit her lip and held it in. She hadn't said a single word about how horrifying she found their recent visit to the British Museum, even if her eyes and the greenish cast to her skin and increasingly tense body language told a very clear story, which he'd found intriguing and even worthy of a passing moment's admiration; he'd predicted she would run from the place in tears, but instead she'd held onto her stoic pose as best she could.

She resisted his offers of sedatives or harsher street drugs, although he suspected she would have crumbled had he offered them on or immediately following that particular Sunday. She'd shown clear signs of approaching a clinical depression bordering on suicidal, but had never actually come close to crossing that particular line. Nor was he yet interested in pursuing that line of research; not when she still held his attention as strongly as she did.

Curious. He'd expected to lose interest in her once he'd been satisfied as to the nature of her origins, but that had not happened. Then he'd expected to tire of her after he'd ascertained her complicity in her abrupt arrival in his Baker Street flat. But after a month of close observation, he was quite convinced of her ignorance in that matter as well. Her reactions continued to hold his interest – to his negative reinforcement conditioning as well as to each unpleasant new revelation regarding the nature of the world she now inhabited. No, he was forced to admit – but only to himself – that he was finding her increasingly fascinating.

No other woman had held his attention like this. The closest he'd ever come had been his former business rival and lover, the late and unlamented Irene Adler. She was everything Molly Hooper was not; ruthless and bold where Molly was kindhearted and timid; sexually aggressive where Molly was clearly in terror of facing what she would no doubt term sexual assault (although interestingly enough she seemed to carry an emotional conflict toward the idea of _him_ doing such a thing to her as opposed to it happening at the hands of one of his own men or some random stranger, something to muse over in future).

Irene had also become boringly predictable, both in bed and out, and he'd begun to lose interest even before he'd broken her, physically, mentally, and emotionally. In the end, he hadn't even bothered to kill her himself, but allowed one of Moran's security lackeys to do it.

When the time came to kill Molly Hooper, however, he knew that he would take care of it himself. As inventively as possible.

He allowed himself a predatory smile at the thought of her lying at his feet, begging him with her eyes not to hurt her, the way she had that first day when he'd approached her with the knife and she'd thought he was about to slit her throat. Or perhaps she would verbalize her terror as she'd done when he'd delivered her first beating. She'd said _please_ and _don't_ so prettily that he quite looked forward to hearing her say it again.

Someday. Not soon, but someday.

Just as someday he would initiate sexual relations with her, purely to see how she reacted to it. He knew she feared it, that she'd expected it once he removed her clothing after beating her that first day; then again at her first sight of the type of clothing she was expected to wear, including the underclothing he'd had Mrs. Hudson acquire to his specifications, and the stiletto heels she still had problems walking in. However, once she realized that all women were expected to parade themselves that way, to flaunt their bodies, she seemed to relax, and he allowed it. Just as he allowed her the illusion that, like the Sherlock from her own world, he was indifferent to such things, that he regarded the body as mere transport for the mind.

Self-denial was all well and good up to a point, but even someone with his ferocious mental capacity could not forestall the body's needs forever. Besides, why bother ignoring such basic bodily functions when it was just as easy to appease them?

A lesson the other Sherlock had yet to learn, it would appear. It would be fascinating to watch Molly's reactions when she discovered how wrong she'd been about him.

The other Sherlock. His thoughts turned unusually pensive as he considered the conundrum of his other self. On the one hand he was fascinated by the idea of his alternate self, by the thought of his existence; on the other, he was repulsed by what the man represented, the soft life he lived in Molly's world, the way he aligned himself on the side of the angels when clearly he was not nor ever would be one of them. He made her tell him about him, sometimes over and over again for hours until her voice went hoarse and dry and her cheeks ran wet with tears from missing the world she'd been ripped away from.

But she did what he asked, when he asked, and for that reason, as well as to keep his own intentions toward her to himself and allow her that small crumb of false hope, he didn't allow any of his men or the doctors they dealt with to touch her, either. They could look, they could talk, they could leer, but they could not touch. Not even John Watson, who'd turned out to be such a valuable – and pliable – resource, was given leave to touch her no matter how clearly he lusted after her. Perhaps one day, when Sherlock had finally tired of her and the mysteries she represented, he would gift her to Watson for a while before disposing of her. Perhaps.

Such pleasant thoughts occupied his mind for the brief time it took them to reach the basement and enter the morgue. He put them aside for the moment, flicking an assessing gaze over Molly as he cataloged the anticipation in her body language, the way her face relaxed and her eyes shone as the doors swung shut behind them. She felt at home here, safe, which boded well for the demonstration of skills he wished her to perform, in order for him to assess her competence.

A demonstration he was increasingly looking forward to.

**oOo**

Competence. He'd expected mere competence, and had been rewarded with...this.

Sherlock found himself breathing heavily as he watched her small, deft hands perform the single most flawless autopsy he'd ever witnessed. Compared to her, every other pathologist who'd cut open a corpse was a mere butcher; they might as well have been hacking at the bodies with stone knives and hatchets compared to the finesse with which she wielded the tools of her trade.

She hadn't been exaggerating her abilities. He'd been confident that she'd spoken the truth even when not under the influence of the drugs he'd used on her during her initial interrogation, but to actually witness the level of her skill was, frankly, arousing.

_Literally_ arousing, physically as well as mentally. Hmm. An unanticipated – but not necessarily unwelcome – side effect of her exhibition of skill. He discreetly tucked his coat more tightly around himself and deliberately slowed his breathing while he pondered this shift in his perception of his prisoner.

His plans to sexually dominate her had been made more out of a clinical interest in her reactions to such an encounter than out of any actual physical desire he felt for her. But now, as he continued to observe her, it became increasingly clear to him that the status quo had been irrevocably altered. A feral grin touched his lips as she began closing the corpse back up, her stitches as neat and precise as her every other move had been, and he felt himself on the verge of losing control. An interesting sensation, one he hadn't experienced in a very long time.

A sensation he intended to take full advantage of.

"Get out," he growled as he turned his glare on Stamford. The doctor started nervously and stared back at him, clearly not understanding, but fortunately – for Stamford, of course – Moran did. Without a word, his head of security – and personal bodyguard whenever he took these little jaunts with Molly out into the larger world – jerked his head toward the door and gestured for the doctor to precede him.

Which, after only a second, the chief pathologist did, breaking out in a sweat as he realized…well, nothing, only that Sherlock Holmes had given him an order…and he had hesitated before obeying. He hurried out of the room as silently as Moran, following hastily at the other man's heels. Sherlock heard the door close behind them. Without taking his eyes off the diminutive woman who was still absorbed in her task – completely oblivious to the actions taking place in the room behind her as she softly muttered her findings into the recording device hanging over her head – he reached back, drew the shades and clicked the lock on the door.


	5. Change in the Status Quo

_A/N: Warnings for noncon w/dubcon elements, if that makes any sense._

* * *

**Chapter 5: Change In The Status Quo**

Molly hummed quietly to herself as she finished sewing up the corpse she'd been asked to autopsy (_male, Caucasian, late twenties, ugly gun-shot wound to the left shoulder, cause of death deceivingly clear at first but then shown to be in fact due to a subtle stab-wound to his right kidney_), knotting the heavy black thread and snipping it off neatly with the edge of the scalpel she'd been using. It had been so blessedly normal to be elbows-deep in a dead body, here in the St. Bart's morgue, that she'd been able to temporarily forget how deeply unsettling her life had become since Christmas Eve.

She'd been able to completely lose herself in the job at hand, to block out the sounds and sights of everything else, and even, for those few, short hours, to (almost) forget about this world's Sherlock Holmes.

Now, however, as she came to the end of the autopsy, he crept back into the forefront of her thoughts. She kept her eyes down, fighting to remain focused on her task, drawing out the closing-up process for as long as she dared. Putting off the moment when she would be forced to face his evaluation of her work.

Sherlock had remained silent as she performed the autopsy, although she'd heard one or two approving murmurs from Mike Stamford – who looked so remarkably like her own Mike, even down to the expression of avuncular friendliness on his face, that she'd almost broken down when he was introduced to her.

Fortunately for her fragile state of mind, he'd then openly ogled her cleavage and sweatily clutched her hand in his for a moment longer than necessary for professional courtesy, and she'd remembered where she was and how the men of this world treated the women and the moment had passed.

After that, once she'd donned gloves and lab coat and protective visor, she'd been left strictly alone to perform what amounted to her competency. But she'd never been able to completely shut out the feel of Sherlock's critical gaze; even now, she felt his eyes on her and fought back a shiver. She had no hope of ever comprehending the man who held her captive. He was brutal, cruel, breathtakingly brilliant; impatient, demanding, demeaning; all that and more. As complex as the Sherlock she'd been torn away from, but far, far darker.

_Evil._ This time her mind breathed the forbidden word, and this time she couldn't stop herself from shivering.

She shivered again as she sensed his presence close behind her. She laid down the needle and thread, her hands shaking suddenly, and half turned to see what he wanted.

He was right there, crowding against her, his breathing harsh as he dug his hands into her shoulders and stared at her.

His face was flushed, there was a bead of sweat on his temple and his pupils were so far blown back that there was hardly any blue left to his eyes…she went cold as she recognized the expression on his face. Dear God, he was…

"Yes, extremely," he said, his low growl cutting off her horrified thought before it could finish itself. "Remove your gloves, your lab coat, that ridiculous headgear and come. To. Me."

Then he released her and turned on his heel, riding crop twitching in one gloved hand, making his way across the room to where the body storage drawers filled one wall.

Molly couldn't move, could barely breathe; no, no, this wasn't happening, it couldn't be…

"Dr. Hooper!"

She jumped at the combined sounds of her name being barked at her from across the room and the riding crop striking the empty metal storage shelf he'd pulled out. His eyes bored into hers; his were cold and yet somehow heated at the same time; hers were terrified, swimming with sudden tears. "Do I need to remind you of the consequences if you force me to repeat myself?"

She shook her head, stammered out a "No" and began hurriedly doing as he'd asked – commanded – her to do. Snapped off the latex gloves, automatically balling them and dropping them on top of the corpse she'd just autopsied when her frantically darting eyes couldn't seem to locate a rubbish bin. Lifted the headgear off and laid it on the table behind her, as carefully as she could manage with her hands shaking as they were. If she damaged the equipment, part of her mind was chattering, it might mean even worse consequences than those she currently faced.

That same part of her mind refused to give a name to what was about to happen to her. Just as her eyes refused to recognize the reason for Sherlock methodically stripping off his outer garments – gloves, scarf, jacket – and dropping them onto the low table behind him, and her mind refused to understand why they were now alone in the room or wonder when Mike and Moran had left, why the door was now clearly locked, the shades on the oval windows drawn…

As she fumbled the buttons for the lab coat, head lowered to better concentrate on what she was doing (and to limit her vision, to deny for just that much longer the reason she was removing that coat in the first place), she heard it again, the sound of the riding crop, tapping impatiently on the edge of the metal shelf, and broke into a sweat. Heart racing, breathing gone ragged and gasping as her fear increased, she gave up on the last few buttons, shrugging the blood-spattered lab coat off her shoulders and allowing it to drop to the floor.

She looked up slowly, dreading what she was about to see as much as she'd once longed for just such a sight.

He'd unbuttoned his shirt in the time it took her to finish removing the lab coat, revealing the smooth, pale contours of his well-muscled chest. Her feet moved her forward even while her mind remained numb, unable to formulate so much as a single coherent thought other than _he told you to come to him, do it or else…_

As she took another hesitant step closer his lips lifted in a crooked grin while his fingers nimbly completed the task of removing his cuff links – all while his gaze remained fixated on her. He slipped the gold links into one pocket of his trousers before shrugging the shirt off his shoulders, allowing the silky fabric to drop to the table holding his outer clothing.

Molly heard herself whimpering as he gestured impatiently for her to join him, watching through terrified eyes as he toed off his expensive leather shoes and reached, slowly, deliberately, for his belt buckle.

He'd laid the riding crop on the edge of the cold metal shelf, a silent reminder of the price she would pay for disobedience – but honestly, wouldn't it be just as well if she allowed him to beat her, to bruise and bloody her body again, even to break her wrist or shatter her kneecap as he'd threatened in the past? Wouldn't that be better than letting him…

"I would still use your body, Dr. Hooper – Molly," he corrected himself as he performed his usual magic trick of reading her thoughts in her eyes and body language, his already-deep baritone a shade lower than normal.

Husky with desire.

There, she'd named it. He wanted her, was going to take her, right here in the morgue, on that same cold, metal shelf where the riding crop now rested. All her most twisted fantasies, the ones she'd entertained herself with on many lonely nights as she longed for some way to make Sherlock notice her as an attractive woman instead of just a conveniently tractable pathologist, were about to be granted.

If there was a God, he was a sick bastard, no question about it.

**oOo**

_Lamb to the slaughter._

What an apt saying that was at the moment. Molly Hooper had come to a trembling stop only a few feet in front of him, and looked like she expected nothing less than to be devoured whole. That observation brought with it such a delicious mental visual that he felt his already considerable erection harden further.

She was doing as he demanded, not fighting him – at least, not yet. All to the good. Whether she fought him or not the outcome was inevitable, and he would enjoy himself immensely either way.

He quite looked forward to the idea of pinning her down on the cold metal shelf, pressing his body onto hers, forcing her legs apart with his knee – perhaps with her hands restrained above her head, held in place by one of his while he used the other to explore the soft contours of her breasts, her hips, her thighs…

"Remove your clothing," he ordered, deliberately phrasing his words to bring up what must be one of her most unpleasant memories since her arrival here – if not of her entire life.

She flinched, her eyes automatically jerking sideways to take in the sight of the riding crop, bringing a wolfish smile to his lips. Oh yes, she remembered. He watched with avid eyes as she fumbled with the buttons of her satiny turquoise blouse, waiting with what amounted (for him) to inhuman patience until she finally managed to undo the last one and remove the top with fingers that visibly shook.

She didn't bother putting it on top of his clothing, just let it drop to the floor as she had the lab coat, her movements not intended to be alluring but affecting him that way nonetheless. Her lips were trembling, she was fighting tears…oh yes, absolutely _delicious_.

Impatient for contact, he reached out and pulled her to him, pressing his lips against hers, tongue demanding entrance as she gasped in shock. Surely she'd expected this…but no, perhaps not. Kissing was an intimacy she clearly did not associate with assault, which was apparently how she was classifying this encounter in her mind.

She would learn, soon enough, that this was not exactly what was happening here. He was no mere rapist satisfying an animalistic lust. What was about to happen between them was as far above such a gross act of violation as an Opera diva was above some simpering pop singer in a cheap lounge.

No, he was giving her something he rarely gave anyone; _himself_, made temporarily vulnerable. If she'd had the presence of mind to hide a scalpel in her garter she could easily have slit his throat, stabbed him in the gut, injured or killed him and made a run for it.

She hadn't of course, although it would have been most stimulating if she had.

She was struggling against him now, straining to free herself from his grip, to pull her mouth away from his, a soft little mewl of "_no no please no_" spilling from her lips as she managed to turn her head just the slightest bit.

Those words were enough to drive him over the edge; no longer content to toy with her, he anchored one hand firmly in her hair and encircled her petite (but delightfully curvaceous) body with his other arm, trapping her against him. Hauling her closer, then using his greater weight to force her backwards, until her rear bumped into the edge of the metal shelf meant to hold only cold, dead bodies.

Tonight it would be holding two very live, _very_ warm bodies instead.

**oOo**

She fought him; how could she not? She scratched and shoved and kicked, doing her level best to get him _off_ her, knowing it was a losing battle but not having given up enough of her self-pride to allow him to just steamroll his way over her. Not this time, not when it was so grossly intimate an outrage he intended to perpetrate against her.

She did, however, find herself stopping short of biting his tongue, although she dearly wanted to. The thought of the beating she would no doubt receive if she drew blood, if she actually injured him in any way, didn't bear contemplating. Why court additional pain? He'd already said he would…would…_take_ her, even if it was after he'd beaten her.

He was using his body to push her backwards until she was stopped by the edge of the metal shelf against her bum. Panic truly manifested then; her fingers clawed at his skin, pulled at his hair; her legs kicked out, she squirmed and twisted and eventually bit…and none of her actions did anything to deter him.

They didn't keep him from hoisting her off her feet and slamming her down on the cold metal shelf. They didn't stop him from rucking her skirt up around her waist and shoving her bra and knickers askew while she fought to recover her breath. They didn't stop him from removing the rest of his own clothing, from clambering on top of her and nudging her thighs apart with his knee, from pressing himself onto and eventually into her. They didn't keep his lips from her throat, his teeth from nipping at her, from drawing blood from the tender skin covering her racing pulse. They didn't stop his hands from holding her so tightly there were going to be finger-tip bruises on her hips, her wrists, around her throat from when she tried, just once, to scream…

When it was over, when he'd spent himself, spilled himself inside her – no condom, but thank God she had a birth control implant, it was one bit of her that hadn't been molested – he rested on his elbows, staring down at her, eyes moving as he appeared to catalogue the damage he'd caused. He'd pulled out strands of her hair, nipped her lips so hard they were swollen and sore, broken the skin on her throat and drawn blood, yet now…now there was something else growing in his eyes, a sort of dark possessiveness that terrified her even more than the brutal act she'd just endured.

"Well, Molly Hooper, you continue to intrigue me," he said, making no move to roll off her, to remove his unwelcome (_but oh-so-welcome if it had been _her_ Sherlock_, part of her treacherous mind whispered) presence.

She knew what he meant and hated herself for it.

Because when he'd driven into her, thrusting his hips against hers…he'd not found a bone-dry entrance, dried out by terror and loathing.

No, he'd found, to her everlasting shame and humiliation, warmth. And wetness. In spite of the pain, in spite of the terror, in spite of the way she fought against him and the memory of how brutally he'd treated her since her arrival in his world…some part of her had welcomed him. _Wanted_ him.

The part that could never completely hate him, just because he was Sherlock Holmes. No matter how twisted, how cold and calculating and ruthless and – yes, the word fit – _evil_ he was, he was still Sherlock.

And God help her, some part of her would always respond to that.

**oOo**

Molly was silent the entire ride back to Baker Street, which suited Sherlock perfectly. Sexual release was one of the few things that could still the endless workings of his mind, but rarely for longer than the duration of the act and its immediate aftermath. The fact that his mind was still fully preoccupied with what had just happened between the two of them thirty minutes after the actual act was…a miracle.

Not that he believed in miracles, or any benign (or otherwise) superior being that could bring such things about, but still. One used the language one had grown up hearing.

He contemplated her out of the corner of his eye. She was huddled into herself but had stopped crying, at least. Her tears had been of pain and fear, yes, but also of shame and humiliation because of her own reaction to their first sexual encounter.

Good. He allowed a satisfied smile to curl his lips. This would be a much more enjoyable method of keeping her in line than merely beating her for any transgressions. She'd been unable to keep herself from wanting him – from confusing him, at the most primal level, with his counterpart from her own world, the one she so desperately wanted and had never had – and that was another weapon in his already considerable arsenal.

It pleased him a great deal to know he was one up on the man she held so dear in her memory. The one she was endlessly mentally comparing him to – and generally finding him lacking. He knew it, she knew he knew it, but neither of them spoke of it. She kept quiet out of fear of his reaction – a valid, reasonable response on her part – and he…he wasn't entirely sure why he, himself, never brought the subject up. It wasn't because he felt threatened by this other Sherlock; far from it. He welcomed the idea of one day confronting his counterpart, besting him – killing him.

If, that is, he could ever put his hands on the physicist who had brought Molly into this world. In spite of his and his brother Mycroft's best efforts to discover the man's identity, he (or, he reluctantly reminded himself, possibly _she_) remained elusive. It wasn't one of the many government lackeys, working either in the open or in secret on various projects Mycroft and his political cronies would prefer to keep secret (not from him, never from); it wasn't some private physicist, at least none either brother had been able to ferret out.

Another reluctant conclusion Sherlock had come to was that it might possibly be a scientist or team of scientists working on Molly's side of the ethereal barrier that kept their worlds vibrating at their own frequencies of existence. Unlikely, but not impossible, although he doubted anyone from that soft, complacent world would have the motivation, the ambition (no, _arrogance_) to go beyond the merely theoretical when it came to such daring research.

And if it was, indeed, someone from Molly's universe who had managed this astounding feat?

Well. Now that he knew it was possible, he would find a way to properly motivate a physicist on his own world to duplicate it. Not to return Molly to her world; no, she belonged to him now, and he never gave up his playthings unless a better deal was to be had. Even then he generally found a way to – how had his mother put it, when he was a child? – ah, yes. Have his cake and eat it, too.

The only thing that could possibly induce him to give up Molly Hooper now, he concluded with a great deal of satisfaction, would be if his other self offered to trade himself for her.

The remainder of the ride was spent in mutual silence, his productive, hers clearly brooding. And when they reached the Baker Street flat, he instructed Moran that he was not to be disturbed for anything less than a breakthrough in the Hooper case, as he referred to his on-going research into Molly's origins, or the end of the world. The man nodded, gave some brief orders to the driver and the man standing watch outside the front door and then reentered the vehicle as Sherlock and Molly entered the building.

**oOo**

Her head was pounding. She'd never had a headache this bad. Of course there were other aches and pains further down on her body, but those she refused to catalogue or even acknowledge. Not yet. Nothing below the neck existed for her at the moment; what was it her Sherlock always said? The body was merely transport for the mind, the only part that mattered; she needed to just pretend, for a little while longer, that she could manage the same sort of detachment.

Shock certainly helped. Helped her continue to hold back the torrent of accusations and "Whys?" and "I hate yous" and invective and additional sobs that were fighting to make their way out of her mouth.

She didn't need to see the riding crop to know how this Sherlock would react to _that_ sort of thing.

Her throat ached as well, from holding back those unshed tears. Oh, she'd cried, during and immediately after, but he'd made it clear that she was to show no signs of distress once they were in public view, and she'd been cowed and ashamed and far too jumbled up emotionally to be able to muster up even the slightest crumb of resistance.

No, she'd nodded and dressed herself and scrubbed the tear-stains from her cheeks and allowed him to escort her out of the morgue. God, the body she'd autopsied was still lying out on the table, uncovered; the equipment she'd used still sitting on the tray covered in blood and bodily fluids for someone else to clean up. She'd had to bite back on the urge to beg him to allow her to put things to right before they left.

She recognized the incipient hysteria bubbling up inside her and managed somehow to shove it back down. Not that she didn't want to just let go, to completely lose control, but by doing so she was terrified she wouldn't be able to rein her sanity back in again. Unlike her crying sessions early in her captivity, if she allowed herself to give in this time she might not be able to return that particular genie to its emotional bottle.

It would have been so easy, so very, very easy to do as he'd urged her, to simply give in and allow him to have his way. The illusion that it was her Sherlock on her world wanting her and doing the things to her that this man had done…oh yes, that was a very, very difficult temptation to resist. But resist it she did, because if she gave in to fantasy, she would be one step closer to falling over the emotional cliff she'd been avoiding all this time, one step closer to letting her sanity slip away.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

**oOo**

She should have realized that the ordeal she'd undergone at Bart's had only been the beginning. Why hadn't she recognized that; why hadn't she seen that the fire she'd somehow kindled in him had only been further stoked by that hurried encounter in the morgue?

If she'd had any hopes or expectations of being left alone once they returned to Sherlock's flat, she quickly learned the errors of her ways when he shut the door behind them, shoved her up against it and commenced snogging her like a half-cut teenager desperate to get laid.

She tried to push him away, struggling against his suffocating hold but once again unable to bring herself to end the forced kiss by biting his tongue. Instead, she went still, allowing his hands to roam her body, to wrench her coat off and undo the buttons of her blouse and squeeze her breasts in his hands. She allowed his knee to wedge her legs apart, staring over his shoulder as she fought a grim battle with her lacrimal glands, determined to stop fucking _crying_ for once.

Her sudden cessation of resistance did not go unnoticed. Sherlock pulled away from her with a frown, eyes flickering over her passive form, taking her apart and apparently not much liking what he saw.

"I prefer it when you try to fight me," he said after a moment, during which she turned her face up to his; even when dealing with shock and terror, she knew better than to ignore him when he was speaking to her.

"I'm sorry, but I'm really not in the mood," she finally said, only mildly amazed at how soft and disinterested her voice sounded. And polite; never for fuck's sake forget to be _polite_ to the man who'd just raped her. "For fighting, I mean. I should think you'd be able to deduce that I'm not in the mood for sex either, but that doesn't seem to be something you care about, so..." She raised one shoulder in a shrug, then braced herself for the backlash that was no doubt about to fall upon her.

He surprised her by not immediately raising the riding crop and beating her for what he would certainly characterize as insolence or disobedience. Instead, he continued to appraise her, a thoughtful expression coming over his face as he stepped away from her and dropped his hands to his sides.

"Passivity doesn't suit you, Molly," he said crisply. "Nor does it suit my needs. I would much rather have you fight me than simply lie beneath me like a dead mackerel when we're having sex."

She wasn't expecting such bluntness from him. Her indrawn breath and widened eyes were clues anyone could have interpreted, let alone Sherlock Holmes. "Please," she started to say, then stopped herself, clamping her lips shut and once again forcing down the sudden lump that had risen in her throat, blinking rapidly to forestall yet more tears.

He moved back into her personal space, reaching forward with those long, slender, clever fingers to take her by the chin and tip her face up to meet his icy gaze. "Molly, this is going to happen whether you like it or not. However," he added, voice deepening as he leaned closer, his lips almost touching her ear, "I promise you, if you simply relax and allow your body to react the way it clearly wants to, this can be enjoyable for both of us."

She swallowed. Hard. Turned her head away, but slowly, making it clear that she wasn't defying him, simply demonstrating her need for more space. "Please," she whispered again, this time knowing what she wanted to say and praying he wouldn't take her words as defiance. "Please, Sherlock, I can't...not right after...can you please just give me some time? One night?"

She closed her eyes as he pressed his mouth to the lobe of her ear, nibbling it delicately before pulling his head back and placing both hands on her shoulders. She stood absolutely still as he gave her a careful, searching, look.

With an abrupt nod, he dropped his hands. "Very well," he said, his voice back to its normal clipped coldness, the velvety purr gone. "One night. After that, however, I will resume sleeping in my own bed whenever I stay here...and you will be expected to join me."

He didn't add "or else," opting to tap the back of her hand with the riding crop, and she nodded, swallowing hard, head swimming with sudden relief. Nothing about him could have prepared her for the possibility that he would be open to compromise, but it was the only thing she'd asked of him since her arrival and she supposed he had taken that into account before granting her request.

Or perhaps he was merely waiting for her to fully recover from the state of shock she was clearly displaying.

Either way, when she made a tentative move away from him, he allowed it, dismissing her as rapidly as he'd seemed to turn her into the center of his attention.

Thank God. There was only so much of Sherlock's intensity she could stand, and she'd had more than her share of his attention today.

"I'm going to take a bath," she said softly as she removed her coat and hung it neatly next to his. He grunted a response, handed her his gloves and scarf to put away, then headed for the stairs leading to his laboratory – John's room, she thought with a pang as he left her alone.

With dragging feet she made her way to the bathroom, discarding her clothing as soon as she'd closed the door behind her. She drew the bath, ran the brush he'd provided through her hair, pinned it up neatly on top of her head, then sat down on the toilet lid, buried her face in her hands and gave in to the sobs she'd been fighting since leaving the morgue.

_This is going to happen whether you like it or not. _

The shiver that ran up her back turned to violent shudders that shook her from head to toe as she heard his voice in her head, a threat carried on the back of a matter-of-fact promise.

_I promise you, if you simply relax and allow your body to react the way it clearly wants to, this can be enjoyable for both of us._

Oh, God, he meant that. He really wanted her to just – what was that ancient saying about being in danger of rape? – oh, yes. _Just relax and enjoy it._

Hysteria once again reared its ugly head, and she managed to tamp down on it again by busying herself with the bath she was running; rummaging in the wall cabinet for the lavender bath salts Mrs. Hudson had purchased for her along with shampoo and other "feminine necessities" (Sherlock's words), checking the water temp, selecting a towel and washcloth and making sure the soap was at hand.

Small pleasures. The only thing this new life had offered her so far was pain and degradation; therefore, she reasoned in her incipient hysteria, the only way to keep her sanity was to focus on the small pleasures she could manage for herself. She stepped into the hot water before the tub had finished filling, the urge to scrub herself clean of whatever remained of his presence overwhelming her.

She didn't scrub herself raw, although the impulse to do so was certainly there. The only thing stopping her was the sure knowledge that, no matter how hard she scrubbed, nothing was going to wash away the filth now staining her soul.

She hadn't come when he fucked her in the morgue, but she had actually felt…something. Something besides panic and terror, something he'd recognized and would no doubt use against her the next time he... Another shudder, another spate of sobbing as she sunk deep into the blistering heat of the water, clutching her arms around herself in a protective gesture that offered no comfort whatsoever.

She'd felt some physical pleasure when he entered her, for lack of a better description. What kind of a person did that make her? Maybe she wasn't so different from the people of her new reality as she'd like to believe.

Maybe, she thought darkly as she stared down at her betraying body, she should have slit her own wrists when she had the chance.

**oOo**

Sherlock found that he didn't mind doing Molly this small, inconsequential favor. Anticipation, after all, made the moment that much sweeter. He allowed her to duck out of his embrace, to cleanse herself in a bath that lasted only five minutes longer than he'd predicted it would – accompanied, also as predicted, by the sounds of deep, wrenching sobs – to wrap herself in the oversized dressing-gown Mrs. Hudson had provided for her. The one not meant to entice a man into a woman's bed, but rather to actually serve the useful purpose of keeping said woman warm.

It was one of the few practical garments he allowed her to wear, along with several pairs of snug-fitting designer blue jeans and some warm jumpers – cashmere, of course, nothing but the best for Sherlock Holmes' woman.

The smile that had been lurking about the corners of his mouth broadened into a grin as he thought of Molly Hooper in that context for the first time. Of course, those who were unaware of who she was and how she'd arrived in his flat assumed she was just his latest piece of arm-candy – not quite as stunningly beautiful as the women he normally allowed to grace his side, but he could care less what others thought of his taste. He was Sherlock Holmes; he did what he wanted, went where he wanted – took what he wanted.

He glanced down at his mobile; it was nearly six, time to let Mrs. Hudson know if he planned to eat in tonight.

He shot off a quick text to her, requesting a light meal for himself and an invalid's tray for Molly. After a moment's thought, he added an extra line, one Mrs. Hudson would understand quite well.

_Weak tea. Formula 12-17b, low dosage._

Molly had begged him for the night to herself, and he'd agreed to allow it.

As always, only on his terms.


	6. His Terms

_A/N: Thanks again to everyone for following, favoriting and most of all reviewing this twisted little tale! For those who are concerned, I promise, I don't write anything that doesn't come out with a happy ending, no matter how dark it gets before the light at the end of the tunnel finally appears. That being said, warnings for drugging and noncon/dubcon in this chapter and violence remembered. Gratitude as always to broomclosetkink for endless cheerleading and to moonmama for invaluable betaing skills and to Adi Who Is Alos Mou for her inspiration. Oh, and of course I own nothing._

* * *

**Chapter 6: His Terms**

A half hour after he'd sent the text, Sherlock heard a discreet knock on the door to his flat, followed immediately by the sound of it opening. Mrs. Hudson walked in, then stepped aside as the new maid – he never bothered with their names unless his devoted housekeeper indicated he needed to know them – followed her in, carrying a pair of dinner trays with covered dishes carefully stacked one on top of the other.

Sherlock eyed them from his seat on the sofa, flicking the ashes from his cigarette into the Limoges saucer he used as an ashtray – a souvenir of sorts from a particularly successful venture a few years back. Combining blackmail with kidnapping was a delicate process, but the heiress in question had turned out to be far more intriguing than any other victim his men had taken, and he'd actually done as promised and set her free once her father paid the ransom.

The new maid reminded him of his former hostage, at least on a physical level; they were both tall, willowy, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, with hair a certain shade of chocolate brown that appealed to him aesthetically. However, where the other woman was grace personified, this woman seemed nervous, almost clumsy as she deposited the two trays on the kitchen table, nearly spilling Molly's tea as she did so.

Sherlock frowned at Mrs. Hudson, who quickly ordered the girl – Sally, she called her – back downstairs. "I'll set these up myself," she said, which was preferable anyway. She, at least, Sherlock could trust. He'd literally saved her life when he made her violent brute of a husband "disappear" twenty years ago, when the pair had been servants in his parents' country home.

He'd been fifteen then, precocious and bored and experimenting with everything from seducing the housemaids – ridiculously easy, even then – to seeing how easily he could ruffle his elder brother's seemingly unruffleable feathers (also ridiculously easy once he discovered his brother's taste in women, cigars, and gambling dens). Hudson had been the perfect butler, his wife an impeccable cook, and during one particularly boring summer they'd spent in exile from the city (his attempt to embezzle money from his father's law firm having been deemed "unacceptable behavior") he'd discovered everything there was to discover about Hudson and his wife.

The man was, to put it bluntly, a brute. Only in his skills as a butler did he show any poise or expertise; otherwise he was willfully undereducated, a ruthless philanderer, and regularly beat his wife into a bloody pulp whenever the elder Holmeses weren't around to criticize the effect this had on her usefulness.

Sherlock had lured the man onto a motorboat, taken him down the river to a secluded spot, and stabbed him to death. He had fond memories of that, his first kill, and wished he'd been able to retain the knife as a souvenir. Ah well. He'd carefully wiped away his fingerprints, then wedged the knife between the corpse's belt and trousers before weighting the body with stones and dropping it into a particularly deep section of the river. He'd then gone back up the opposite direction and faked a boating accident that the police still believed had led to the man's disappearance.

Mrs. Hudson, however, had correctly interpreted the self-satisfied smirk on Sherlock's face when he was brought back to the house, wrapped in an orange blanket and escorted by overly solicitous emergency personnel eager to stay in the influential family's good graces by treating their youngest son as if he were made of glass. She'd known then exactly what he had done and had declared her loyalty to him that day, as soon as the immediate fuss died down and the two of them were able to be alone. If she believed it was because Sherlock felt some sort of compassion for her, that was her delusion – and a useful one it had proven over the subsequent decades.

In truth, he'd only done it because he was tired of being dismissed by Hudson as a mere child who had no true power over him. Also because Mrs. Hudson's cooking was truly outstanding, and he was almost as tired of being fed cold tongue and salads on the many, many days she was too incapacitated by her husband's beatings to cook a proper meal.

She didn't care how Sherlock earned his money and power. She didn't care that he was constantly moving household, uprooting her from one London flat to another on a whim – their current stay at Baker Street was the longest he'd asked her to remain in one place due to his unwillingness to remove Molly to another location. She only cared that he'd done her this one mercy, and felt that she owed him her undying loyalty in return.

That, and no doubt because he allowed her a certain amount of autonomy and the power she'd always craved but never been allowed to enjoy, including the authority to hire and dismiss servants at will. The only time he insisted she inform him of her decisions was if the servant in question turned out to be a police plant or informant to a rival crime lord. Not that he had many left, certainly not in England, but still. Any such issues were to be dealt with exclusively by him.

Mrs. Hudson had given him their agreed-upon signal by calling the maid by name in front of him. Something was suspicious about the new girl. Good. He could use a distraction from the mystery of Molly Hooper; he'd agreed to give her this night, and since his current experiments were at a point where he was waiting for results, he would use the rest of the evening to focus on finding out exactly who "Sally" was really working for.

**oOo**

Molly didn't remember falling asleep after she'd choked down the tea and toast Mrs. Hudson had brought her after her bath.

Sherlock had ordered the meal for her – chamomile tea, which she loathed, dry toast and a bowl of some kind of porridge she could barely stand the sight and smell of although Mrs. Hudson was an excellent cook. An excellent cook, an excellent housekeeper – and about as friendly and comforting as Cinderella's stepmother. So like the other Mrs. Hudson and so unlike her. Just like Sherlock.

Molly had learned during her first week in this strange new world that trying to be friendly to the old bat brought nothing but contempt from her and amusement from Sherlock. She'd finally given up after being told with brutal honesty by Mrs. Hudson herself that she had no desire to "get to know" a woman she considered at best a temporary resident in her employer's life. Thus their relationship, such as it was, remained strictly business-like; she procured things for Molly that Mr. Holmes ordered her to procure, instructed her and corrected her behavior when necessary, and made sure she ate when not dining with Mr. Holmes.

Tonight, Molly was informed, Mr. Holmes was concerned about her health. Which apparently translated to, therefore you'd best choke down as much of this as you can, girly.

The "or else" didn't need to be spelled out.

Molly did her best. When she had drained the cup of the horrid-tasting tea and nibbled the crusts off the two slices of toast and at least made an effort to taste a spoonful or two of the porridge, Mrs. Hudson seemed satisfied, rose to her feet and took the tray and its contents back out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Molly had curled up beneath the covers, staring bleakly at the wall until, at some point, sleep had overtaken her.

She was awake now, however, not because it was morning or because her stomach was upset or for any other simple, normal – safe – reason.

She was awake now because there was someone in the bed with her.

Sherlock.

She stiffened as his arms encircled her, adrenaline flooding her system, bringing her slightly more awake and groggily aware as she felt his lips on the nape of her neck. She was wearing one of the skimpy nightgowns he'd provided for her, but hadn't she still been wearing the warm dressing-gown when she lay down on the bed earlier? When had it been removed, and why couldn't she remember doing it, had Sherlock…

"Relax," Sherlock murmured, his voice lowered to what she now thought of as his mock-seductive register. "I promised you the night."

"But, but you're here," she managed to stammer out in spite of the heaviness of sleep still clogging her tongue…why was she still so tired, why was it so hard to focus? The adrenaline coursing through her system should have cleared her mind better than this. "What do you..."

"Look at the clock," he ordered her, and she turned her eyes obediently toward the small digital alarm on the bedside table. "What time is it?"

"Half midnight," she replied, eyes widening as understanding of his twisted reasoning made its way through her molasses-thick thoughts. "Oh, God," she moaned as his fingers began stroking her arms. "No, please, I meant a full night, not – "

"My house, my rules," he rumbled in reply, once again placing delicate kisses along the back of her neck.

She shivered as she felt her body inexplicably responding to his touch, as even the small amount of mental clarity she'd gained from the effects of the adrenaline began to abate. The clinical part of her mind, the part that frequently stood back from her more emotional self and labeled and processed in the background – her inner Sherlock, as it were – offered up an answer. "The tea," she managed to gasp out when all her lips seemed to want to do was moan in pleasure as one of his hands moved down to cup her left breast. She could feel the slide of his thumb across her nipple, felt it hardening in response to the delicate touch and shivered again as a blaze of heat flashed across her body, beginning in her sex and reaching fiery tendrils down her legs and up her spine, spreading across torso and throat and face.

She felt him chuckle against her. "Yes, Molly, the tea. Very clever. And if necessary it will be the tea the next time I wish to claim your body. But," he added, pulling her close against him, close enough that she could feel the shape of his arousal against her backside, close enough to tangle his legs with hers, "we'll talk about that in the daylight. For now, I have other plans for your mouth."

The drug, as she discovered later, was one part sedative – which was why she didn't remember falling asleep, or notice when Sherlock entered the room and removed the dressing-gown from her body – and one part sexual stimulant. The formula, of course, was of his own creation, and could be strengthened or weakened depending on what level of reaction was wanted from the victim.

In Molly's case, he'd had Mrs. Hudson give her a low enough dose of the sedative to allow her to sleep for six hours – enough to get her to midnight – and just enough of the stimulant to allow her to react to his touch, but not enough to turn her completely mindless with sexual desire.

He could do that as well, she was also informed – and he _would_ do it, with or without her consent, if she continued to withhold herself from him as she'd done upon their return to the flat.

But all that came hours after the rising of the sun. For now, in the darkness of the bedroom, all she knew was that she'd been drugged, that she was fighting her own body's arousal, and that Sherlock was doing his very best to seduce her into giving him the reaction he wanted.

And Sherlock's very best made a habitual overachiever look like the worst layabout ever.

He turned her to face him; she struggled a bit, but it was hard to fight when her own body was urging her to cooperate, and her mind was fading in and out on her the way it did when she'd had a few too many glasses of wine on ladies' night out with her girlfriends back home. His lips touched hers, softly, so softly, his tongue gliding into her mouth (_when had she opened it, allowed him entrance?_), his teeth nibbling on her bottom lip and pulling moan after moan from her traitorous throat.

His kiss grew deeper, more demanding, and Molly felt a wave of mingled shame and arousal flushing her body, heating the flesh until she was sure she must be glowing and red as a sun in supernova.

Then Sherlock slipped down her body, using hands and tongue, teeth and lips to mark her, to bring her body to quivering life even as her mind continued to drift and fade, in and out, until there was nothing left to her consciousness except the reactions he was so expertly evoking from her.

His tongue on her breasts, circling each nipple in turn, teeth nipping gently before moving downward, fingers and lips caressing the sensitive bottoms of her breasts before sliding to her abdomen. His fingers joining his mouth, ghosting along her flesh, raising goosebumps and moans in their wake.

His hands easing her legs further apart as he settled himself between her thighs. His mouth – oh God! – his mouth pressed against the damp heat of her sex, his tongue and lips working in tandem with his fingers as he licked and probed and rubbed the slick entrance and surrounding flesh, teasing and taunting before finally bringing his tongue to where she needed it to be.

_No. Wrong._

With a hoarse cry, Molly managed to scramble away from Sherlock, nearly tumbling onto her face in her haste to leave the bed and his poisonous presence before the unthinkable happened.

Drugs or no drugs, there was no way she could let him give her an orgasm, it was wrong wrong wrong…

Strong hands grasped her around the waist before she could untangle her feet from the sheets, tossed her back onto the bed facedown, grabbed her wrists and hauled them down by her sides.

A knee shoved her legs apart as she felt a panting breath beside her ear. "I told you, Molly, whether you fight or cooperate doesn't matter, as long as you _react_." Then he bit down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder as he wrestled her arms together until they were trapped between his body and hers, one hand still gripping her wrists as he pressed himself into her, thrusting hard into her moisture-slicked opening.

She cried out, half in rage and half in unwanted pleasure as she found herself once again being driven to an edge she desperately wished to avoid – but the stimulant in her system joined with the almost unbearable friction of his rough movements against her body, the continuing murmur of his velvety baritone in her ear, and suddenly Molly found herself tumbling, falling, flying over the edge and into the abyss, crying out his name as he released his grip on her hands and continued to suck and nip at her neck, marking her, branding her, claiming her as his.

She hated him. If she thought she could get away with it, she would _murder_ him for everything he'd done to her, but he kept a tight grip on her even after his own climax had burst into her and he'd pulled her over onto her side, curling around her, still inside her, not releasing her even so they could clean themselves. His grip remained tight, possessive, even as his breathing evened out and she felt the lean length of him relax into full sleep, felt him finally slip out of her even as the tears slipped from her eyes.

**oOo**

Sherlock leaned against the bedroom doorjamb, took a drag off his first cigarette of the day, and watched as Molly slept. The sun was about to rise, and he'd awoken relaxed and refreshed the way he always did after a spectacular bout of sex. Two such sessions less than twelve hours apart had left him in a fantastic mood, even if he'd had to force his partner the first time and essentially force her the second time.

Not that such a thing had ever put him off before. Nor was it putting him off now; he felt no regrets for indulging himself so shamelessly, even though he had more than enough other projects – personal and business – to take up the time he was currently occupying with his ongoing fascination with his otherworldly "guest."

No, he was content for the moment to simply stand and smoke and watch this perfectly ordinary woman sleep, to continue to put off his necessary trip to the bathroom for his morning ablutions – and a damn good scrub under the spray.

She could use one too; the room still reeked of sweat and sex mingled now with cigarette smoke, but he made no move to awaken her or open the window. He doubted she'd fallen asleep until well after he had, and idly wondered how much of that time had been spent thinking of ways to kill him.

He went half-hard at the thought; would she ever allow herself to be driven to the point where she might actively, _seriously_ contemplate murdering him? It would be delightful if she did, if only because she would have finally crossed a boundary he knew she'd drawn in her mental landscape. She didn't necessarily consider herself better than him or the other denizens of his world that she'd encountered, yet he could tell she thought of herself as a moral person; certainly moreso than he, at the very least.

His gaze grew abstracted as he weighed the relative merits of attempting to actively corrupt her versus simply observing how far along such a path she might be driven to progress on her own. It was an interesting intellectual exercise, and if he ever grew bored with her, he might consider such an experiment.

Of course there was always the possibility that she was one of those annoyingly pure souls – such as a certain sour-faced detective inspector who continued to act as a thorn in his side – who simply could not be bought or ruined. Who somehow managed to find a way to retain their morality, their sense of ethics, resisting temptation even in light of the harsh realities of the world around them.

If anything, he supposed he should admire Lestrade more since he'd actually been born and raised in this world, whereas Molly's kindler, gentler universe had given her what might be considered an unfair advantage in the arena of moral certitude. She'd no doubt faced fewer challenges – or temptations – than DI Lestrade.

All in all, he found he preferred his contemplation of Molly Hooper, if only on a purely aesthetic level. He certainly felt no compulsion to mark Lestrade's body the way he did Molly's.

In fact, the idea of permanently marking Molly Hooper, identifying her as belonging to him and him alone, held a great deal of appeal in the moment. A tattoo, perhaps, of his monogram? SVH on her hip or thigh, the curve of her breast, somewhere she could never ignore it but for his eyes alone unless he wanted others to see it? Of course, tattoos could always be erased, lasered away, and if she were ever removed from his possession – unlikely as that event was, despite his brother's continued pressure on him to at least allow his own scientists to examine her – he wanted there to be no doubt as to who had claimed her. Who _owned_ her.

She would hate that as much as his sexual claiming of her body. She would fight against it, even with the threat of a beating hanging over her head. There was no question in his mind as to the outcome of such a struggle, but it didn't make the contemplation of the moment any less savory.

As he watched her, the cigarette dangling from his lips, he found himself absently turning the ring bearing his initials around and around on his finger. Mycroft had his own version, a family tradition going back centuries, rings given to each Holmes upon reaching the age of eighteen...if they lived that long. The rings were always purest gold but the jewels surrounding the raised initials in the oval center were the owner's choice. In his case, a circle of blue sapphires that, he thought smugly, exactly matched his eyes when he was angry. If he did force Molly to wear a tattoo, he would certainly make sure it was in that very color.

She stirred and sighed, once again catching his attention. His eyes tracked every move, watching avidly as the sheet twisted around her naked form, revealing the curve of her left breast, the whiteness of her inner thigh.

He had better things to do. He was a busy man, not some moonstruck adolescent fucking his first virgin. He should let her sleep, to recover her strength for the trials of the day ahead; he didn't want her too exhausted, not this early in the game he was playing with her. He would break her spirit eventually, but he wasn't tired of her yet.

He should shower and clean himself and prepare for the no doubt busy day ahead of him, after having taken so much time off yesterday to devote himself to further observation of – and interaction with – his pet project. He should look further into the matter of his newest housemaid, Miss Sally Donaldson, who appeared not to have existed before last week.

He should do a lot of things.

What he did do was stub his cigarette out in the ceramic ashtray resting on the edge of his dresser, shuck off his dressing gown, and climb back into bed with Molly.

He didn't bother with anything so hypocritical as an attempt at seduction, not this time. His half-hard erection had, rather than dying, had sprung into a full hard-on, and he suspected that even if there was another woman available to him, the one currently squirming beneath him, whimpering for him to leave her alone (_please, please, Sherlock, stop, don't_), would still be the one he would choose to share himself with.

And he still had absolutely no idea why. The very mystery of his reactions and responses to her was enough to ensure his continued interest for a long, long time to come.


	7. Interludes, Part two

**Chapter 7: Interludes, Part Two**

_Interlude Four – New Scotland Yard (There)_

The sound of a door closing and locking. The sound of footsteps echoing through a concrete-walled, 10×10 underground room.

The sound of an electronic device sweeping the room for hidden microphones, cameras or other recording devices.

The sound of someone knocking on the door from the outside. The sound of footsteps making their way toward the door, unlocking and opening it, then reversing the process as a second set of footsteps hurry into the room.

"Donovan. Thanks for coming. What have you got?"

The sound of a chair being pulled out and someone dropping heavily into it. The sound of a match striking a box.

Coughing. "Christ, Greg, can't you fucking wait till I'm done giving my report? You know I hate those fucking things."

"Report, Donovan." The sound of smoke being deliberately blown into someone's face.

More coughing. "Fine, you bastard. Yeah, the woman's there. Didn't see her, but the housekeeper had me bring up a couple of trays for dinner last night. One was for _him_," the clear sound of contempt in the second speaker's voice, "and the other was what the old bat called an 'invalid's tray' for the woman. Tea, toast, porridge. With a little something extra in the tea, if you catch my meaning."

"So whoever she is, he's drugging her." The sound of fingers tapping impatiently on a metal table. "What else?"

The sound of someone shifting uncomfortably in their seat. "Nothing. Not a single fucking thing. No matter what your man says he's learned – "

The sound of an increasingly irritated DI interrupting. "What he's given me _proof_ of learning. Evidence, you remember evidence? That thing you're supposed to be digging up for me? Drugged tea for some bint you haven't even seen isn't enough to get me a warrant to search Sherlock fucking Holmes' flat, not with his brother rumored to be up for PM in the next election."

The sound of an indrawn breath. "Jesus, Greg, Mycroft Holmes as PM? May as well roll over and play dead now! Fucking Christ!"

"Not if I can help it. But the only way to get to that bastard is if we can get the goods on his low-life freak of a brother. And right now, no matter what else we've got going on, this woman is our best lead. So find a way to see her, to confirm if she's the one in the photos our man sent us, and get me the proof I need to get a judge to sign off on a search warrant."

The sound of a contemptuous snort. "Yeah, good luck on that, mate. First you have to find one that he hasn't paid off or blackmailed or who won't soil his pants if you just mention the name 'Sherlock Holmes'."

The sound of a tired sigh. "There are a few. Hard to find, but they're out there. But they won't move without solid proof. Which brings us back to you. You feel safe enough, being there? Any signs they're onto you?"

"No, it's good, Greg. Don't worry 'bout me. If I get even the slightest hint that the wind's up I'll scream bloody murder and haul ass out of there so fast I'll be in your office before you finish sending someone to respond to the 999 call."

The sound of a snort of laughter. "Yeah, well, just don't get the wind up too easily, yeah? Or wait too late. You're a good officer, Sally. I'd hate to have to bust you down to crossing guard duty for screwing this up – or deliver your eulogy at another fucking cop funeral. Been too many this year already, and it's only fucking January."

The sound of another tired sigh, this one feminine. "I know. Losing Dimmock was tough. He was one of the few good ones left, yeah?"

"Yeah." A long, silent pause. "Right. You'd best be off, wouldn't want you to be late for your Baker Street shift. Have fun changing sheets and scrubbing floors for Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, yeah, brilliant, just rub in, why don't you. Christ, I hate that old bitch, she's a real slavedriver. Would've loved it in the old days when she could have had me whipped and sold off to some American cotton farmer."

"Just remember; she works for Sherlock Holmes, has for years now and she's as loyal to him as a dog, so try to keep a civil tongue in your head or she may find a way to do just that. Just 'cause slavery's been officially abolished for 100 years doesn't mean it's actually gone, know what I mean?"

"Yeah, got it. Plus, I know you're really saying don't fuck up the job. But thanks for pretending to care, Greg."

The sound of a chair being abruptly shoved back, and a surprised "oomph" from Sally Donovan as she is pulled to her feet and into a hasty embrace. The sound of mouths meeting in an urgent kiss, then Lestrade's hoarse voice sounding a warning. "Watch your back, Sally. I need you alive and not just for the fucking case, you know that."

Sally's voice, sounding slightly breathless. "Yeah, I know. I do know, Greg. You watch yours as well; we both know how much he hates you for messing up that thing with the cabbie last year."

The sound of two pairs of feet moving across the room. The sound of the door being unlocked, lights being shut and the door closing.

The sound of two people leaving a room, not knowing that they will never see one other again.

_Interlude Five – Here _

"Sherlock? You there?"

John Watson looked around the darkened flat, then sighed as he made his way to the kitchen and flipped on the light. Sherlock had taken to sitting alone in the dark as time marched on and no sign of Molly Hooper could be found.

This time, however, it seemed Sherlock actually wasn't there. A full month had passed, Mycroft's people didn't seem to be any closer to finding Molly than Sherlock or the police. It wasn't unheard of for Sherlock to leave the flat – he'd finished up the Adler case in record time, discovering her connection to Jim Moriarty and how she'd planned to trick Sherlock into decoding something the British government would much rather she didn't get her well-manicured hands on – but John had grown resigned to the fact that every day, upon returning home from the job he'd taken at the St. Bart's A&E as a relief surgeon, he would find his flatmate standing by the window smoking cigarette after cigarette and brooding.

John understood, more than Sherlock would be willing to credit him. Molly was gone but life marched inexorably onward. Bills had to be paid, Mrs. Hudson needed the rent money they owed her, and in the absence of any kind of leads, there was damned little to be done to find Molly.

John sighed again and started putting the groceries away. It was a sign of Sherlock's continuing agitation of mind that there were no gruesome experiments in the refrigerator, no chemistry equipment cluttering up the counters and cabinets.

All in all, John would much rather be shoving aside containers of questionable material to make room for the milk and cheese. It would mean a return to something approaching normal.

It would mean giving up.

That thought brought him up short; was he ready to give up? How could he be? A month wasn't such a long period of time that the police would stop searching even under normal circumstances, which these decidedly were not. Had he already written Molly Hooper off in his mind, considered her dead and buried no matter how remarkable the circumstances of her disappearance?

"No," he said aloud, quite firmly. No. He was not about to give up on Molly just because life was proceeding without her. Nor was Sherlock, nor was Lestrade or Mycroft or the rest of the British government, for that matter.

He'd just finished putting the last of the tins of vegetables away in the cabinet next to the stove when the door to the flat burst open. He started and left the kitchen to see who it was.

It was Sherlock, of course, bursting in the way he did when...John felt his heart stutter and begin racing. "You've found something, heard something – is Molly back?" he blurted out, moving into the darkened sitting room at an eager pace.

"No, she's not back, but yes, I've discovered some very interesting research that might explain how she was taken," Sherlock shot back. "I need your laptop, John." He turned on the nearest lamp and settled himself onto the sofa, shooting his flatmate an impatient look when John remained frozen in place, halfway into the sitting room.

He pointed at the desk, and Sherlock bounded to his feet. The expression on his face was a combination of determination and anticipation, the look of Sherlock on a case with a lead to follow, and John felt his soul lighten at the sight.

"Mrs. Hudson put me on to it, of all people," Sherlock said, answering questions John had yet to formulate as he pulled the laptop off the desk and returned to his spot on the sofa. "Apparently she was watching a documentary on spacial anomalies, mostly theoretical, but one in particular caught her attention. She dragged me down to her flat to watch it, and the artist's depiction – John, it was very close to what happened to Molly." He looked up from the computer, eyes burning as they met John's.

"What was it, then?" he asked.

"Wormholes, John," Sherlock replied. "Not something I ever paid much attention to in the past, but who would've thought there would ever be a need?"

"Yeah, well, who expects things from the Science Channel or Doctor Who to show up in their own flat?" John replied, a vague attempt at comfort he knew Sherlock would either ignore or sneer at.

It would appear he'd chosen the 'ignore' option as his fingers flew rapidly over the laptop's keyboard. "They named several astronomers in the documentary, but there was one in particular, a Dr. Harrison Smythe, who seemed the most knowledgeable of the group, the one with the most precise way of expressing himself. He's British, works for the Royal Observatory, I just have to locate his contact information..."

Sherlock's voice lowered into an incomprehensible mumble as his fingers continued to tap the keys at an astonishing rate. Well, astonishing if one hadn't observed him hard at work in the past, which John Watson most certainly had.

With more energy than he'd felt in a long time, he headed for the kitchen to make himself a sandwich, intuiting that it would be some time before Sherlock reemerged from the fever into which he'd worked himself upon finally locating what might turn out to be a tangible lead.

God, he hoped this meant they'd be able to find Molly and bring her home soon.

_Interlude Six – There, Unknown Location_

The lab was cramped, the walls covered with shelves, the shelves jammed with equipment, as were the four tables that took up the majority of the room. Some of the devices were obviously off-the-shelf electronics, some were just as obviously purchased from specialty suppliers, but there were many that appeared to be Frankensteinish mish-mashes of devices that were never meant to work together.

Work together, however, they did. Quite successfully, in fact; far more successfully than their creator had anticipated. He'd only hoped to replicate the quantum field that would eventually be used to draw his target out of his universe and into this one via the medium of quantum entanglement, but instead he'd been astonished and gratified to see the field expand and gain enough strength to actually take the woman – Dr. Molly Hooper, he'd since learned her name to be – and complete the circuit, as it were. She'd literally been taken from one quantum reality and deposited in another. He would win the Nobel Prize for Physics if this were ever revealed to the world.

Or be dragged off in chains. Both outcomes were equally likely.

He found himself constantly teetering between overwhelming pride in what he'd accomplished and terror that he'd given his hand away too soon. Because of course Dr. Hooper hadn't been his target, and the Baker Street flat into which she'd been dropped (he'd have to find a way to calibrate the quantum signatures needed to bring and send people a bit more gently in future) hadn't been where he'd intended – or expected – her to end up.

No, he'd been aiming for Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, with the intent of bringing the consulting detective here, to this hidden laboratory. At that point he'd planned to plead his cause to the brilliant man...but that was for the future. As soon as the components that had unexpectedly burned out were replaced, the devices recalibrated, some minor tweaking done to correct the previous errors, eradicate the odd random elements that had cropped up...yes, then he would be ready.

And Sherlock Holmes would find himself in the same universe as Molly Hooper. After that, who knew? He might even be able to find a way to send them both home one day.


	8. Undercover Blues

**Chapter 8: Undercover Blues**

**February 5, 2012 – There (Two Weeks Later)**

Two more weeks passed. Molly was torn between keeping track of the days and giving in to her growing desire to try and ignore how much time was passing, every day ticking away like another nail in the coffin of her hopes of returning home. And yet she was sure Sherlock – the _real_ Sherlock from her world – wouldn't have given up yet. She still remembered absolutely nothing of the events of her disappearance, but from what she'd been able to ascertain about the circumstances, they were perplexing enough that she knew he would keep at it.

But whether or not anyone was still actively looking for her, the Sherlock she was now living with (_no, stop, don't try to downplay it, the Sherlock she was_enslaved_ by_) seemed confident that there was no way for anyone from her universe to come to her rescue. He mocked her hopes, telling her that she was trapped, that only someone from this universe would have the drive and arrogance to attempt such a dangerous experiment; surely even the most depraved scientific mind from her own universe would be unable to match the capabilities of a man raised in a world where the soft life she took for granted was at best the fleeting dream of the downtrodden.

"Think about it, Molly," he'd said to her just that morning, when she awakened to once again find his body entwined with hers. "How likely is any experimental physicist in your world to receive any form of government or private funding for such a mad venture, enough to give them the means to actually send a random victim into another world? Or do you still believe that you were sent here on purpose?"

She'd let that slip during her first week of captivity, speculating that she'd been deliberately chosen, that if it was a man-made phenomena that brought her here it had been for some purpose. She wished she'd never said anything aloud, especially at times like this, when Sherlock was in a mood to be cruel, to taunt her with the fact (no, it's just his _belief_, he has no idea, not really, don't ever forget that) that she was trapped here.

A sharp pinch to her nipple had wrung a cry of pain from her lips and brought her back into the moment as he glared at her. "Well, Molly? Do you still believe that?"

She'd shaken her head. No, she didn't. Much as she wanted to, there was no earthly – or unearthly, for that matter – reason for anyone to have either sent or brought her to this horrid place. If the scientist in question was hoping for an ally, he must be sorely disappointed – if he even knew she was there at all.

Sherlock had seemed satisfied with her response, his hold on her easing somewhat, fingers sliding across the skin of her chest in a manner calculated to cause arousal. His lips were on her neck and she told herself that the shiver that ran over her form as he continued to touch her was one of revulsion, rather than a sign that his attempts to seduce her into fully accepting him as a lover were working.

Of course, if she were being completely honest with herself, she would be forced to admit that he didn't really have to work that hard to get her to respond to his advances any more. She was still struggling against her own body's traitorous reaction to him, especially in the dark, when it was that much easier to ignore the cruelty that could flash in his eyes at the least provocation. When his voice was a lulling murmur against her ear – or a coarse whisper promising vulgarities that seemed to flow straight from her ear to the very core of her female center, a lightning bolt of sex and sensuality she was growing more and more helpless to resist.

That very morning was a prime example. She shuddered just thinking about it; not because he'd done anything to hurt her, but because he'd been almost loving in his attentions to her and her body had responded unmistakably to his soft touch, his gentle words and kisses. And this was after he'd said such cruel things to her, sneering at her for thinking herself special in some way when they both knew she was simply an ordinary woman caught up in extraordinary circumstances.

It was unhealthy, allowing herself to respond to him physically in spite of all the reasons she shouldn't; she didn't need a therapist to tell her that much. But what about her situation was healthy in the first place? Nothing. Not a damned thing. So why not do whatever it took to keep her from completely losing her mind? If it meant occasionally fantasizing that this Sherlock was the real one, the one she'd fallen in love with...

Oh. Was that the problem? Was it because she hadn't just been harboring a crush on the other Sherlock, was it because she'd actually allowed herself to fall in love with him? Was that why she was having so much trouble disentangling her feelings for the two men? The one who'd repeatedly raped her versus the one who'd been so desperate to save her that he'd literally dug his nails into her flesh to try and keep her from being taken away?

Was she so fucked up emotionally that she couldn't separate the two of them in her mind no matter what horrible things this one did? Had she finally crossed the line between trying to catch and hold Sherlock's attention, and out-and-out masochism? And was that really love, or just some sick obsession?

She was glad this Sherlock had left her alone for the afternoon, while he was off doing some horrible business or other she had no desire to know anything about. If he knew she was brooding on such things – and he always seemed to know when her mind was on the mental conflict she felt regarding him – he would do what he always did: he would home in on her moments of weakness, her self-doubts and mounting fear that she would never find her way home again. The way he'd mocked her for believing herself special somehow, special enough to be deliberately taken out of her own universe and brought here, was only one example of his seemingly relentless drive to crush her spirit and twist her into something she still believed, deep down, she was not: someone who truly belonged here.

A conversation they'd had a few days ago drifted into her mind. He'd been interrogating her about her own world, about Sherlock and Mycroft and what she knew of their relationship, asking her over and over again if she actually thought her version of the British government or any private research labs could possibly have created the technology that brought her over. She'd tossed off a tired comment about how such things had always been believed to exist only in the realm of fantasy, and he'd pounced her words as proof that it had to be someone on this side of the barrier who'd brought her over.

In his usual icy, disdainful manner, of course. She could hear the words as clearly as if he were saying them now.

"The technology we have here is slightly ahead of your own, because the government and private industry have far fewer restrictions placed on them, you already know that," he'd said with a sneer. "The ridiculous limitations placed on human experimentation in your world places you hopelessly behind us in the fields of medicine and weaponry alone!"

"Your medical advances aren't much good if they're only used to keep the elite alive!" had been her heated response to that particular taunt, which Sherlock had offered up in his most irritatingly supercilious tones, sounding so like her own Sherlock impatient with someone's perceived idiocy that her mouth had run ahead of her brain.

Still, she wouldn't take it back, even if this Sherlock punished her for her defiant words. It stung, every insult he hurled at the universe she no longer occupied. Yes, it hadn't been perfect – far from it – but even at its worst she would swear on her dying breath that it was infinitely better than this place.

Luckily Sherlock had been more interested in worming every reason for her protest out of her, intellectual and emotional, than in punishing her for losing her temper with him. They were still lying beneath the covers after their first sexual encounter where he hadn't had to either drug her or pin down her struggling form – their first time together where Molly had made the conscious decision to do as he'd suggested in the first place.

Lie back and enjoy it. That, she understood now, a week later, had been the beginning of her current free-fall into complete moral ambiguity. She should have continued to fight him, to force him to drug her; at least then she would feel as if she'd retained some shred of self-worth.

Her only hope now was that she would never fully give in to him, to be the willing partner he (sometimes) wanted. Even though her determination to keep herself from fantasizing she was with the real Sherlock kept wavering, it had finally sunk in that this version saw nothing wrong with what he was doing to her. And not the way a sociopath from her own world would view it as being all right as long as it was something he wanted, either; this entire, sick society, on both sides of the law, barely even labeled sexual assault a crime. There was a culture of "blame the victim" that people on her own world were working hard to eradicate, while on this world it was simply shrugged off as "she asked for it" or "she deserved it" or, worst of all, "she wanted it."

It was just one more thing for her to hate about this place. Just as she hated so much about herself, especially the ambivalence she felt for the way things were between them now. She hated the way she'd been forced to compromise her moral perceptions in order to make things easier on herself – and hated herself for being so weak as to feel the need to do so in the first place.

The sound of the flat door opening jolted her from her thoughts; her heart sped up and she jumped to her feet in sudden terror. Why was he back so soon, when he'd clearly indicated she wouldn't see him until later that evening?

She was relieved, but only the tiniest bit, when Mrs. Hudson entered the room instead, closely followed by Wiggins, whose first name she'd never heard and had no desire to learn. The skinny, rat-faced IT man was holding some complicated pile of electronics, and she couldn't help taking a nervous step backwards as he entered the sitting room and set the machinery carefully on the low table in front of the sofa.

He smirked at her, clearly enjoying her nervous expression. "Not for you this time, luv," he said cheerfully. "Mr. Holmes likes to be here whenever you're involved, you know that. Gonna give the flat a once-over for bugs, seems like the Yard has been watching him and knows he's spent an extra amount of time here over the past month."

"Wiggins, you know Mr. Holmes dislikes gossip," Mrs. Hudson said, her tone severe and expression disapproving.

Wiggins shrugged, unfazed by her words. "He never told me not to say anything to his little pet, either," he shot back.

It was the most interaction Molly had seen between the two, and there appeared to be a fair amount of animosity there; she filed it away, possibly useless information but who knew what she might be able to use at some future point?

Now that she knew she wasn't the focus of the visit, she relaxed a bit, but did not return to her seat on the sofa, choosing instead to remain where she stood, watching as Wiggins went to work. Mrs. Hudson remained by the door, watching coldly, her expression as unfriendly as ever whenever Molly's eyes accidentally met hers.

God, she hated this version of Mrs. Hudson almost as much as she did Sherlock. At least there was no deep-seated emotional conflict when it came to the housekeeper; she was a bitch on wheels and Molly had only met her counterpart twice back on her own world. Enough to know that the two women were complete opposites, but not enough to form any kind of emotional attachment.

Great. Her mind just kept running in circles, endlessly comparing this world to her own no matter what the distraction. It might have been better if Wiggins had actually been about to perform some weird science kind of experiment on her; maybe that would be enough to get her thoughts under control.

She folded her arms across her chest and tried to blank her mind, just watching Wiggins as he moved around the sitting room. He disappeared down the small hallway leading to the bedroom she now shared with Sherlock and all the tension she'd let drain from her body came right back, shooting down her spine and stiffening her body. She hated the idea of anyone seeing the evidence that two people slept in that bed; had she put her clothes away from the day before or left them hanging on the back of the chair? Were any of her underthings in view? She hadn't bothered to make the bed, knowing it was laundry day, but she hadn't stripped it down, either, a task she reserved for herself. But she hadn't expected Mrs. Hudson to appear until dinnertime, to drop off her meal and take the laundry downstairs with her afterwards.

She nearly jumped when the other woman spoke. "Once Wiggins is finished, get yourself ready to go out."

"Go out where?" Molly asked, turning to stare at her in consternation. But Mrs. Hudson refused to answer, her icy eyes warning Molly from pressing the issue.

She wasn't terrified of the housekeeper the way she was of Sherlock, but she knew a lost battle when faced with one, and kept her lips sealed on the many, many questions that wanted to spill through them. She'd find out where she was going when she got there, she supposed, repressing a sigh of mingled impatience and resignation.

**oOo**

Three hours later Molly walked back into the sitting room. It was the first time she'd been escorted from Baker Street accompanied only by Sebastian Moran, the first time she'd ventured from those rooms in over a week, and Sherlock, she'd finally been informed by the grim-faced housekeeper after Wiggins had finished his work and left, wanted her impressions of the things she'd been shown.

She managed to keep a shudder from going over her form, but only just. One of the things she'd told this Sherlock about his counterpart was a description of what she knew of his homeless network, his series of down-and-out informants and lookouts, which had intrigued the man she was about to speak to. So he'd sent Molly out to view some of the less salubrious neighborhoods of this foreign London, and it had been an eye-opener, to say the least.

An uncomfortable, unfavorable eye-opener. There were so many people living on the streets, so many people not covered by any sort of government-sponsored system that she still felt sick thinking about it. So many thin, grimy faces; so many children – dear God, the children – staring as the chauffeured vehicle in which she was being driven slowed down and passed them. She wanted to throw open the doors, and for the first time since her residency, practice medicine on living human beings.

She still felt sick. She knew it showed on her face, in the way her feet dragged – just as she knew that he would be waiting for her, ready to pounce on her with questions and deductions and that sick light of gleeful curiosity in his eyes.

And so he was, sitting on the sofa, one arm outstretched along its back, facing the fireplace. "Come along, Molly. Join me, share with me your observations."

Stomach knotted, fingers twitching nervously, Molly obediently made her way over to the sofa and sat next to Sherlock. "It was horrible," she said flatly, eyes focused on the white marble of the fireplace. "Absolutely horrible." She turned to face him, eyes wide in her too-pale face. "That's what you wanted to hear, wasn't it? That I was devastated to see all those people living in such horrific conditions, and the children..." She raised a shaking hand to her face, swallowing the sobs that threatened to tear themselves out of her throat. "God, Sherlock, how can you people _live_ like this?"

The sound of the door to the flat opening caught her attention, and her eyes automatically assessed the newcomer – a maid judging by her uniform – as she backed into the room, tea tray balanced carefully in her hands.

"Mr. Holmes? Mrs. Hudson said you asked me to bring up your tea…"

Molly gasped, shocked by the familiar voice and face in so foreign a setting, so shocked she allowed her mouth to run far, far ahead of her brain. "Sally?" she said, her voice rising incredulously. "You work _here_?" Dear God, the policewoman was reduced to the status of a maid in this universe? She knew the "glass ceiling" here was set far lower than in her own world, that racial equality was even further from a reality, but surely someone with Sally Donovan's intelligence and drive could do better than…

Oh. God. No.

Ice swirled through her veins as she realized what she might have just done.

Nononono…she hadn't just broken the policewoman's cover, please God, don't let her have just destroyed this woman's life by giving her away to a ruthless enemy…

Oh, but she had. She saw it in the look of malicious triumph Sherlock shot her as he slowly rose to his feet, with his hands behind his back as he strolled to the "maid," who was still standing by the door to the flat, a wary, concerned expression on her face.

Sherlock circled her, shutting the door behind them, the lock catching with a soft "click" without ever removing his eyes from her. Molly remained as frozen as Sally was, half-risen from the sofa, one hand braced on the back, the other covering her mouth as she stared at the other two.

Sally made a valiant effort to act as clueless as a lowly maid ought. "Sorry, sir," she babbled, the hands holding the tea tray showing just the slightest shake – or was she acting? Impossible for Molly to tell. "I see I'm interrupting." She managed a step backwards, away from where he'd stopped directly in front of her. "I'll just leave this on the table and get back to the kit…"

Moving with the swiftness of a falcon striking, Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. The tea tray crashed to the floor; Molly cried out as Sally tried to free herself from his grasp, still pretending – or was she? – to be a terrified servant who'd inexplicably caught her employer's unfavorable attention.

"Give it up, Sally," Sherlock snarled. With another of his lightning fast moves, he had her face slammed up against the door, one arm twisted behind her back. The cry of pain she gave was no act, not this time. "I knew you were working for someone, but whoever set you up here did an expert job at covering your tracks. I've never run into so many brick walls in my attempts to discover someone's true identity, but thanks to Dr. Hooper, at least now I know who you work for." He leaned in close, his voice a snarl as he said: "Did Lestrade really think you'd be able to find something on me, _Officer_?"

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_A/N: Uh-oh, things aren't looking too good at the moment! Hold onto your hats, folks, the rides about to take another downturn! (You've been warned...) Thanks as always to my reviews and followers and readers and wonderful beta moonmama and inspiration-in-human-form Adi Who Is Also Mou! Couldn't have done it without any of you! Chapter 9 is done and 10 is begun so updates will slow a bit...but will keep coming. Stay tuned!_


	9. Crime and Punishment

_A/N: Warnings for character death (not Molly, even I'm not that cruel), violence and general nastiness. I own nothing but the aforesaid violence and nastiness, Moftiss & BBC own the rest, lucky them. Just remember folks: It's always darkest before the dawn. Thanks for sticking with this story this long. Gracias to moonmama for reviewing and broomclosetkink for general hand-holding and too many others to mention for their personal levels of awesomeness!_

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**Chapter 9: Crime and Punishment**

Molly's paralysis ended as Sherlock called out for Moran while manhandling Sally away from the door. Both of the woman's arms were now twisted behind her back as Sherlock forced her to her knees. Molly rushed over to them, no thought in her head except the need to stop this, to make it right, to fix the horrific mistake she'd just made, but even as she reached out to try and tug Sherlock's hands away from his prisoner, he turned his glare on her, once again freezing her in place and sending an icy shiver down her spine. "Don't, Molly. There's nothing you can do to save this bitch. I suggest you go into our bedroom and close the door; things are about to get very, very unpleasant."

She gave Sally an agonized look before turning back to Sherlock. "No, Sherlock, please, whatever you're going to do...please, think about it!" Molly pleaded even as she stumbled back a step, one hand held out beseechingly. "She's a police officer, if you just...let her go, then the only thing she can accuse you of is assault, she can't have learned anything of use working in the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson!"

Sally remained silent during Molly's half-sobbed outburst, but the look on her face was an odd combination of anger and bemusement, laced with the occasional wince of pain as Sherlock continued to hold her arms twisted behind her back. Sherlock said nothing as well, his face unreadable, but Molly couldn't stop trying. This was all her fault; why hadn't she just kept her stupid mouth shut? Couldn't she do _anything_ right?

The door to the flat opened while she was still pleading for mercy and babbling out promises to do whatever Sherlock wanted if he would just let Sally go. Moran strode into the room, took in the situation at a glance and swiftly removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt, silently offering them to his employer. He ignored Molly completely even though she stood less than five feet away from the other two, and focused his attention on Sally and Sherlock.

Holding the undercover officer easily with one hand, Sherlock wrestled the cuffs onto her wrists, hauled her to her feet and shoved her into Moran's waiting arms. He then returned his attention to Molly, who'd refused to do as he'd suggested – ordered – and leave the room. He strode over to stand directly in front of her, glaring down at her upturned face, taking in the hands fisted at her sides, the trembling that shook her from head to toe, the defiance and fear warring for dominance on her face...and smiled. A terrible, cold smile that set her heart hammering in her chest and threatened to rob her of her breath. "Very well, Molly," he said softly. "If you wish to remain, by all means do so." Then he grabbed her arm and forced her over to the nearest chair, shoving her into it before turning his back on her and striding over to the kitchen door.

He emerged from that room with a single straight-backed chair in his hold, which he carried over to the middle of the room, placing it precisely so that it was directly opposite the one Molly now occupied. A single jerk of the head was enough for Moran to drag Sally over to it and force her to sit. Zip ties were produced and used to attach her ankles roughly to the chair's legs and her still-handcuffed arms behind her.

When she was thoroughly and efficiently bound to the chair, Sherlock took his place in front of her, gazing down with his hands behind his back as he spoke. "You are a police spy, Sally. Don't try to deny it. Now that I know," he paused long enough to give Molly a nasty smile, "it should be child's play to find the evidence I need to ferret out your true identity. I presume it's DI Lestrade you work for?" he added, gazing down at her intently.

Sally remained stubbornly silent, her expression giving nothing away, having smoothed itself into as blank a mask as Sherlock had ever managed. She gazed at a point somewhere over his left shoulder, ignoring his words. She might have been found out but clearly she intended to give nothing away herself.

Molly felt a hopeless sense of admiration for the other woman's stoic silence, although she wondered how long it would last once Sherlock called for John Watson and his drug cocktail so he could peel her secrets out of her one by one.

"Well, Officer, I can see you don't intend to give me anything I can use. That's fine," Sherlock said, his voice dangerously soft as he locked gazes with his prisoner. "I don't need you to tell me anything, anyway; all I need for you is to deliver a message for me."

Molly, who'd been braced to witness an interrogation like the ones she'd endured at Sherlock's hands, shot him a puzzled look. What did he mean, what was he going to do...

She watched, uncomprehending, as Sherlock held out his hand and give Moran a particularly enigmatic look.

Sherlock's head of security nodded once, reached around behind his back and produced a handgun from beneath his black leather jacket. He silently handed it over to his employer while Molly's brain refused to comprehend what was about to happen – but only until Sherlock raised the gun and pointed it directly at Sally's head.

Everything happened so quickly after that, that Molly could barely make sense of it. She heard herself screaming as she hurtled herself out of her chair and launched herself at Sherlock, managing to get in two good blows to his face before Moran grabbed her around the waist and forcibly removed her from his employer's body. He wrestled her away like it was nothing, no matter how hard she fought and screamed for him to let her go. In no time he had her hands restrained behind her back, stoically ignoring her attempts to kick back at him, to free herself, to do _something_ that would make him let her go and shield Sally from what was about to happen.

"Nooo!" she practically howled as Sherlock once again raised the gun, aimed, and fired.

Molly slumped in Moran's hold and would have collapsed to the floor if he hadn't stopped her at the last second, curling his arms around her waist and forcing her to remain upright. Tears streamed from her eyes as she stared at the blood pouring from the wound so precisely set in the middle of the other woman's forehead.

She barely heard Sherlock as he ordered Moran to take clean up the mess, although her head jerked when he also ordered the man to "Make sure DI Lestrade receives a suitable memento before you dispose of the body." She barely felt it when Moran let her go, when Sherlock hoisted her into his arms and carried her out of the sitting room, shock temporarily robbing her of control and paralyzing her vocal chords.

She only came back to herself when she felt her blouse and bra being removed, her wrists being bound, one to either side of the ornate iron headboard. Oh, God, was he going to force himself on her right now, after she'd watched him murder someone? A woman she now knew to be a decent, loyal police officer in both worlds?

A woman whose death was on her own conscience?

She felt sick, waves of nausea rolling over her body, sweat breaking out on her forehead, but she swallowed the bile in her throat, hating the idea of dealing with Sherlock while covered in her own vomit.

"What…what are you going to do to me?" she croaked out, beyond caring if he took it as defiance; she was already in so much trouble, how much worse could it get?

He paused in the act of tightening the rope around her right wrist, and she clamped her mouth shut on the question she'd been about to ask; the words dried up in her throat at the expression of naked fury in his eyes. She shut her own mouth reflexively, cringing away from the certainty that by trying to shield Sally Donovan, to stop her from being murdered in cold blood, she had effectively brought the same fate upon herself.

"Open your eyes, Molly." The words, so cold, so demanding, brooking no delay. Her eyes snapped open as if on strings, and she focused on his face, her every breath a harsh gulp, her heart pounding arhythmically in her chest. The sweat on her forehead dripped into her eyes; she blinked, but never moved otherwise; she was too terrified to do so even if she weren't bound to the bed like some cheap romance novel heroine.

God, she wished the door would burst open, that the Sherlock from her own world would appear, overpower his evil self and save her. A futile wish, of course. The door remained firmly shut, this world's Sherlock remained standing by the bed, working his sigil ring absently with the opposite hand as he continued to stare coldly down at her.

"Once I became aware that 'Sally Donaldson' wasn't who she appeared to be – and that someone had gone to a great of trouble to hide her true identity – it occurred to me that you might be of assistance. If she was someone you knew in your old life – and the fact is that many people here seem to fall under that category – then it would be logical to enlist your unwitting assistance in helping me ascertain her true identity. In that, you did exactly as I'd predicted: immediately indicated your recognition of her, thus identifying her as a police spy rather than a plant put in place by a rival." His gaze, already icy, went positively Antarctic as he leaned closer and snarled: "However, you destroyed any appreciation I had for your assistance when you not only openly defied me in front of one of my employees, but also when you attempted to interfere with me when meting out punishment to a spy and traitor."

"She was just doing her job!" Molly burst out, unable to contain her own rage and sorrow as it temporarily overpowered her terror. She ignored the tears leaking from her eyes as she lifted her head in order to glare up at him. "She was a police officer, you can't call her a traitor for just doing her job!" Her head collapsed back on the pillow as the sobs began in earnest, tears for the life so cruelly stolen away from Sally Donovan, tears for herself, for whatever fate she was about to meet on this horrible world. "God, Sherlock, just…just kill me and get it over with, I can't – I swear, I can't take it anymore!"

Incredibly, he laughed. She stared at him as he chuckled and shook his head, whatever humor he'd found in her words working to melt some of the ice in his turbulent blue-grey eyes. "Oh, Molly, I'm not going to kill you," he finally said, tense posture relaxing a bit as he continued to toy with his ring. "Why should I, when you continue to fascinate me? I'd thought you well beyond the futile heroics you attempted today, too broken to do more than offer up a verbal protest. No, killing you…that's not on today's agenda."

Then he leaned forward, all humor gone from his expression as the icy mask returned. His face was so close to hers she could feel the puff of air he expelled with each whispered word, harsh and hot against her cheek. "However, such defiance, especially in front of one of my men, cannot and will not be allowed to go unpunished."

Then he straightened up, turned on his heel and exited the room, leaving the door open.

Leaving Molly to fight her roiling nausea and wait in terror to see what he had planned for her punishment.

Sherlock returned within minutes. She heard him coming down the hall, calling something unintelligible over his shoulder – instructions to Moran, she guessed, warning him not to interrupt – before reentering the room, kicking the door violently shut behind him.

Molly stared at him, not bothering to hide her fear; no matter how stoic a face she presented, he could always see right through it, and right now she absolutely did not have the energy for any kind of game playing. She was too raw, every nerve on edge, after witnessing Sally Donovan's violent murder at this man's hands.

Hands, she noted, that were carrying several things: a box of matches, a Bunsen burner, a pair of thick leather gloves, and a long-handled pair of pliers.

While she continued to watch, her terror mounting even though she had no idea what he was about to do to her, he placed the things he'd brought into the room on the top of the dresser, impatiently sweeping away the other items that littered its surface – hairbrushes, combs, perfume bottles and the jewelry box he'd given her that she only opened when he forced her to – onto the floor. She winced as she heard at least one of the delicate glass bottles smash open, and the scent of lilacs filled the room.

She couldn't see what Sherlock was doing since his back was to her, blocking the movements of his hands, but recognized the sound of a match being struck and the hissing of the gas ring as it caught. He dropped the spent match to the floor as heedlessly as he'd tossed aside their combined belongings, then turned to face her.

His face was as expressionless as she'd ever seen it, but the fury was clear beneath the cold mask he presented to her. When he spoke, she shivered as if that arctic chill was something she could actually feel, manifesting itself around her prone and bound form. "Clearly you have not yet reconciled yourself to the permanency of your presence here, Molly, in spite of the many ways in which I've sought to remind you of the exact nature of your situation since your arrival."

Unwillingly her eyes jerked to the right, taking in the sight of the riding crop resting on the side table under the room's single window. Her reaction didn't bring the smirk to his lips it usually did; a bad sign.

Even worse was the way he deliberately raised his left hand and worked his ring off his finger, staring coldly at her the entire time. Her heart, already pounding in terror, went into overdrive. What was he going to do with it, exactly?

The answer to that question, of course, could be summed up in two words: Nothing good. He laid it down on the dresser, then lifted up the gloves and put them on as methodically as he would if he were her Sherlock preparing for an experiment. Only this time, _she_ was the experiment – but the gloves were more than simply protective, not just thin nitrile or latex, but heavy work gloves, as if he were gardening and didn't want to be scratched by the thorns. Or handling something too hot…

Her mouth dried and spots danced before her eyes as it suddenly snapped into place. The gloves. The Bunsen burner. The pliers. The ring. The way her clothing had been removed from her chest…all of it adding up to one horrifying possibility.

No. She could be wrong…she had to be wrong. The pliers could be for him to pull teeth, the ring removed simply because it chafed beneath the gloves. God, she'd much rather he was about to simply torture her than do what she suspected – what she _knew_, deep in her agonized soul – he was about to do to her. A whimper escaped from her lips before she clamped them tightly shut, watching as Sherlock carefully placed the pliers around the base of the ring as he held it just as carefully over the low flame.

He turned to face her once he'd adjusted things to his liking, a grim smile on his lips as Molly felt all the color drain from her face. "You belong to me, Molly Hooper," he said, his voice almost contemplative. Conversational. "You still don't fully believe that, still think someone is coming to save you, to take you away from this place and return you to the boring little life you lived before." He held the ring up before his eyes, gazing at it critically before once again lowering it so it rested just above the flames. "Today's events have proven that you need a more permanent reminder on your person, something to show you and the rest of the world exactly to whom you belong."

He raised the ring up again and walked over to the bed, kneeling down on the mattress and lowering his face until it was just above hers. She was shaking her head, denying what he was about to do, biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood in her terror and the stubborn determination not to let him hear her beg – not for mercy, not for anything, ever.

His eyes flicked to her chest as if he were selecting exactly the right spot...then the ring, the metal heated over the open flame of the Bunsen burner, was lowered, and despite her intentions otherwise Molly Hooper opened her mouth and screamed as Sherlock Holmes burned his initials into the tender flesh on the outside of her left breast.

* * *

_Nother Note: Next chapter will be a time jump to Molly's one year anniversary in this universe, but there will be flashbacks and in-story explanations of things to cover the missing time. Just FYI._


	10. Happy Anniversary, Darling

_A/N: I know I said that there would be a six month time jump, but after debating things both inside my head and with my incredible beta, moonmama, I've decided to cut to the chase and jump to the one-year mark. There are reasons, and anything people feel I skipped over will most likely be addressed via flashback and memories and conversations, so you'll know how things got from where they were in chapter 9 to where they are now. Have faith, and I promise to deliver! Any questions or concerns, feel free to PM, I promise to respond! Warnings for some coerced sexual acts and someone getting shot (but no one dies, promise)._

* * *

**Chapter 10 – Happy Anniversary, Darling**

**December 24, 2012 **

Molly heard the door to the flat open and arranged herself artfully across the bed, dressing gown gaping open just enough to show her modest cleavage and the lines of her legs, leaning back on her elbows the way she'd learned Sherlock preferred to see her displayed.

Heart pounding, she waited for him to come to the bedroom. He'd promised her…if she greeted him "properly," he'd promised her a surprise for their "anniversary." A surprise she would like, he'd clarified, and she could only hope it was what he'd dangled before her for so long: more freedom.

To be allowed to go to the shops by herself, to walk in the park on a sunny day without him or one of his guards looming over her (although he'd made it clear that said guards would never be far, at least she'd be able to pretend for five minutes that she had _true_ freedom) – she wanted that so desperately she could feel herself start to tremble, her heart hammering in her chest with the sheer _need_ that threatened to overwhelm her. Or – Dear God, please please _please_ let it be so – the possibility that he would allow her to take up a full-time position as a pathologist, at Bart's or some other institution, would that really be so much to ask?

She allowed herself a cynical smile that threatened to turn into tears. God, was this what she'd come to, after a year of being so tightly bound to this world's Sherlock Holmes? That the mere potential for such small freedoms, freedoms she'd once taken for granted, could hold such power over her?

She swallowed down the tears; she'd become quite good at that over the past twelve months. And here it was, Christmas Eve 2012, and she was even more pathetic than she'd once believed herself. Willing to do whatever it took to get what she wanted.

Just like everyone else on this godforsaken version of Earth.

The bedroom door opened. She cleared her mind of such troubling thoughts and arranged her features into a welcoming, seductive smile. "Happy anniversary, darling," she purred as Sherlock entered the room, hating the words as they came out of her mouth. Hating herself, hating the man in front of her even as her treacherous body ached for his touch.

"Molly." Her name came out in a hoarse gasp, his eyes widening as they took in her welcoming pose. Hadn't he expected her to cooperate, when he dangled promises, vague though they were, in front of her nose?

She rose to her knees with the fluid grace she'd had beaten into her over the past year and held out her arms to him. He stumbled forward like a man in a daze, and her smile grew knowing as she saw the physical signs of his reaction to her tenting the front of his trousers. He was still wearing the Belstaff, but it was open in the front, and when he reached her side she slipped her arms around him beneath the damp wool of the coat, nestling her head against his chest and rubbing her fingers gently up and down his back.

His heart was thundering madly in his chest, not unlike her own, and she smiled to herself, a triumphant smile at having drawn so immediate and visceral a reaction from him. Good. Maybe his promised "gift" would be increased in proportion to his obvious appreciation of her efforts.

She pulled away, reaching up to grasp him by the back of the neck, pressing her lips against his, sliding her tongue between them until he opened his mouth with another gasp and allowed her entry. He remained curiously passive in her embrace, not reaching out to hold her or return the kiss, for a long, puzzling moment.

Just as she was about to pull away, to question whether this was what he actually wanted from her tonight, his arms encircled her, holding her tightly to him, and he finally responded to the kiss, returning it, his own tongue thrusting eagerly into her welcoming mouth. He moaned against her – a first, that; he never ever vocalized more than a gasp even at the height of passion – and she felt a thrill of mingled triumph and desire course through her veins, manifesting in a shiver as she clutched the lapels of his coat and pressed her body even closer to his.

Then her hands were shoving impatiently at the coat, pushing it off his shoulders as he stumbled back a single step, looking dazed, stunned almost, and she smiled at him, not even needing to fake the blatant need in her eyes this time. He allowed the jacket to fall to the floor, unmoving as she whirled into action, a deep inhalation of breath the only sound he made as her hands fumbled for the belt and buttons and zip to his trousers. She heard him say her name in a strangled voice, something that sounded like "stop, wait, no" (but couldn't possibly be those words), but she was too busy pushing his trousers and pants down, just enough to expose the throbbing erection she'd felt beneath the trapping fabric, to answer him.

Then she fastened her hands and mouth on his cock, stroking and licking and sucking the way she'd learned he liked best, and his hands were on her shoulders, fingers digging in desperately before suddenly removing themselves, pressing themselves into her hair, tugging at her head.

Pulling her away. Forcing her to raise her head and look at him.

She stared up at him, feeling something deep inside curdling with sudden fear. What had she done wrong, why was he stopping her? Was he angry at her sudden sexual aggression? But he'd liked it before, even knowing that it was at best only a partial reflection of her own desires…

His eyes were wild, pupils blown back with passion, breathing harsh, but he managed to gasp out: "No, Molly, stop, you don't understand…"

"No," an identical voice drawled from the doorway. "I don't believe she does. Do enlighten her, Mr. Holmes. Or should I just call you 'Sherlock'?"

Molly froze at the sound of that voice, that impossible voice. Slowly, fearfully, she forced her head to turn.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the bedroom doorway, one hand behind his back, the other aiming a gun at the two figures by the bed. No, not so much at her as at the second Sherlock Holmes who was slowly reaching to readjust his clothing, fastening the zip and staring at the newcomer with a faint curl of contempt to his lip.

Two Sherlocks.

_Two._

Molly felt faint; a roaring filled her ears, her vision started to tunnel into darkness, then she took hold of herself and forced the panic, the terror, back down into the farthest recesses of her mind, forced her reeling mind to make sense of the scene before her.

Two Sherlocks. The one she'd grown resigned to, the one who owned her body, and the other…

The one who owned her heart, her soul if there was such a thing.

The Sherlock from her own world. No wonder he'd tried to tell her to stop. No wonder he'd seemed so shocked by her sexual boldness; he was probably just as shocked by his own body's blatant desire, that must be why he'd taken so long to stop her.

She'd prayed, wished, hoped for this moment – and now she'd ruined it. She'd been so focused on the small freedoms promised that she'd destroyed what might be her only chance at the larger happiness she truly craved.

She felt a tear slip from her eye, then another and another until suddenly she was sobbing, gasping out apologies to her Sherlock, the real one, the man she'd loved so desperately and had resigned herself to never seeing again. She was babbling like an idiot as she tried to convey how sorry she was, to explain why she'd done what she'd done…

"Yes, Molly, I'm sure he understands." That sneering, contemptuous voice cut into her mingled sobs and apologies like the sharpest scalpel, obsidian and ice combined. "I wondered when he might make his move; he's been here for two weeks now. That's how long it's been since my men began giving me confusing and contradictory accounts of things I was supposed to have done and said, isn't that right, _Sherlock_?"

He sneered the name, obviously feeling no great threat at the sight of his counterpart, and once again Molly knew it was her fault. She'd managed to undo Sherlock, her Sherlock, just long enough for their mutual enemy to arrive and find that he held the upper hand even more firmly than he must have thought he did.

**oOo**

Sherlock – the one who had, indeed, been on this world for only a short period of time (although a bit longer than the two weeks he was willing to admit to), his fascination with not only the mere existence of such a place but with the similarities and differences between here and home tempered by his concern for Molly – regarded his other self through hooded eyes, consciousness once again bathed in the icy coldness of logic, all the confusing and conflicting emotions aroused (yes, that was exactly the right way to express it) by the sight of the long-missing Molly Hooper lying in so lewd a pose on the other Sherlock's bed firmly under control.

Her appearance and attitude had shocked him; had he made a mistake in coming here, did she neither want nor need saving after all? The way she greeted him whilst mistaking him for his counterpart, the invitation in her pose and welcome in her eyes…but no. Underlying it all was a clear sense of melancholy even he couldn't fail to recognize, no matter how much more difficult emotions were to navigate than facts. And the fact was that this was what his Molly had been reduced to by this world's twisted version of himself.

Before he could even begin to process how enraged and helpless and yes, dammit, _guilty_ that made him feel, she'd moved forward, arms wide, eager for his embrace, and he'd found himself stumbling toward her like a man in a trance, unable to resist the need to confirm her physical reality after she'd been gone for so long.

The embrace had startled him all over again, the ardent kiss unexpected – and unexpectedly, awkwardly adding to his already aroused physical state. Before he knew it she'd opened his trousers and had his erection in her sweet, not-too-small-after-all mouth, and things had threatened to get further out of hand if he didn't stop it. Now.

His stunned intellect had finally stirred itself, panicking him back to sanity in time to stop Molly's (_God, wonderful, amazing, breathtakin_g) ministrations…but not soon enough for the trap his counterpart had, in hindsight, quite obviously sprung.

Her captor had arrived far too close on Sherlock's heels for it to be mere coincidence, and judging by his reaction upon interrupting them, he'd waited for exactly that moment, watching and listening from outside the half-opened door, before strolling into the room and taking control of the situation.

He'd come to rescue Molly and ended up as much a prisoner as she was.

As if reading his mind, the other Sherlock, the one who'd tied himself to the side of the devils rather than the angels – few though they seemed to be on this world – smirked at him. "If you're expecting your Dr. Watson to come crashing to your rescue, or our own, _dear_ DI Lestrade, don't hold your breath," he said with another sneer, an expression that seemed to come so naturally to his lips that it was almost a surprise when he wasn't wearing it. "The two of them are currently being detained by my men."

"Because of course you knew exactly where I sent them," Sherlock surmised, keeping his voice as cool and even as the other Sherlock. "To the site of your clandestine attempts to replicate the accident that drew Molly here in the first place."

Molly's tormentor nodded without ever removing his gaze – so odd, staring into the eyes she'd described to him so many times as blue, green, grey and finding himself as incapable of pinning down their exact colors as others always were – from his own.

He wasted no further time in examining this other version of himself. Their few physical dissimilarities were minute, practically non-existent; the only change he'd had to make had been to sacrifice his signature curls and stalk around like a stage villain with a perpetual sneer on his lips and no one had questioned him.

Well. No one had _appeared_ to question him; clearly that assumption was now proven wrong. John and this world's Lestrade had been found and taken captive. The question was, had Dr. Smythe been found out as well?

Before he could find the correct way to frame his question without giving too much away, three things happened almost simultaneously: his other self brought his hidden hand into sight, bearing a riding crop which he raised up and lowered with brutal force onto Molly's bare shoulder. Molly cried out in obvious pain and collapsed on the edge of the bed, huddling into herself as if in expectation of further blows.

He made an involuntary movement forward, instinct propelling him for once ahead of intellect, which was silenced over the furious pounding of his heart, to remind him that his adversary held a gun on him...

Too late. By the time he realized his mistake his other self had turned and fired directly into his upper thigh. With a grunt of pain, he collapsed to the bedroom floor.

**oOo**

Molly screamed as the gun went off, scrambling madly for the wounded man but coming to a jerking halt as she was grabbed roughly by the arm and hauled against her captor's lean form. She fought like a wild thing, kicking and scratching and clawing, desperate to get to the real Sherlock, to put a tourniquet around the top of his thigh and stop the bleeding, to make sure the bullet hadn't shattered bone or torn open his femoral artery.

A swift blow to the head finally stilled her, silenced her screams and buckled her knees, although the man holding her – the one she would never call "Sherlock" ever again, _never_ – refused to allow her to drop to the floor. Hauling her up once again, he looked over the collapsed form of his counterpart with a sneer. "He'll live. However, he should have learned from his first attempt to save you, Molly, that he will always be doomed to fail."

Molly had no idea what the madman standing next to her was talking about...until suddenly she did. It had been a year, but she still bore scars from the scratches on her ankle. Scratches that exactly matched the spread of this man's hand. She'd speculated that Sherlock had tried to save her...and as she looked down at him, watching as he clutched his bleeding leg, she understood that she'd been right.

He'd tried to save her. Hadn't just let the otherworldly force drag her away. It shouldn't have made her feel better, but it did.

His counterpart sneered out a command as she remained passive in his hold, still trying to process the realization she'd just stumbled upon. "Use your belt as a tourniquet, man, unless you prefer to bleed out in front of our Molly."

She watched through tear-blurred eyes as Sherlock slowly, painfully removed his belt and did as he'd been instructed (_thank God, it looked like the bullet had gone through the fleshy part of his thigh, maybe the injury wasn't as bad as she'd first thought_), his eyes never leaving hers. He even managed the shadow of an encouraging smile for her sake, although she was unable to return it. She did, however, manage to stop the flow of tears; where she'd never been able to be brave and strong for herself alone, she knew she could do it for him. Especially knowing how hard he'd tried to keep her from being taken.

Something of her resolve must have translated itself into her body language, because her captor released his hold on her arm only to grab her cruelly by the hair, twisting the auburn stands around his hand and forcing her head back so he could examine her face. A smile crawled across his lips, and Molly fought down the urge to shudder, to back down and beg for his forgiveness. She would never do that again, not even to spare herself any unpleasantness or pain...

"But you would do anything for _him_, wouldn't you?" he asked as if reading her mind, his voice a soft, dangerous purr. He forced her head around to face Sherlock, so pale and drawn, the tightness of his lips revealing the pain he refused to show otherwise, blood still seeping from his wounded leg. "So nice that my pet has regrown her spine, but I'm afraid it's too little, too late, Molly."

His hand tightened on her hair and she gave an involuntary cry of pain as he forced her onto her knees. "Now, Molly," he said, his voice still soft and deadly, silky smooth with the promise of future pain. "I believe I interrupted you when you were attempting to give 'me' my anniversary present. Do continue. And if you do well enough, I might let you bandage up his wound."

"And if I don't?" she asked, her voice low and shaky but at least she was able to ask the question. She gave herself points for that much, for sticking to her guns and not immediately caving in to the man who'd held her prisoner for a year.

The slow smile he gave her promised nothing good. "Oh, you won't like what I do if you disobey me, Molly love. Not. At. All."

The gun he still held, which had been pointing toward the bedroom floor, now raised and pointed directly at Sherlock. His eyes bored into hers, hypnotic and deadly. "I'll kill him. Then I'll make you watch while I torture John Watson to death."

"Don't do it, Molly."

The identical voice was hoarse and laced with pain. But even as Sherlock spoke, even as he urged her not to give in to her captor's demands, she knew she would never be able to allow him to die just because she wanted to spare herself the humiliation of was about to follow.

Instead, she gave a slight shake of her head and reached up with hands that somehow remained steady, undoing the black leather belt, the metal button, the zip. Pushed down the immaculately pressed trousers and silky black boxers. Freed her captor's erection, and pressed her lips to the tip.

Did as he ordered her to do. Took his heated shaft into her mouth and bobbed on it until he came. Swallowed and wiped her mouth when he finished, feeling curiously numb as she leaned back on her heels and gazed blankly at her hands. Raised them, finally, and rearranged his clothing, pulled up the zip, tucked him carefully away before finally lifting her gaze to meet his.

He was smiling. He reached down and tilted her chin further up with the tip of the riding crop. "Good girl," he purred, then stepped away from her. "Now that that's been properly taken care of, time to deal with our unwelcome visitor once and for all.

Smiling, he raised the pistol and pointed it directly as Sherlock's forehead. "Good bye, Mr. Holmes."


	11. Reunion Waltz

**Chapter 11: Reunion Waltz**

"No!"

Molly was never sure afterwards where she found the strength to push this world's Sherlock aside, to shove his arm upwards so that the bullet intended for her Sherlock's forehead went into the ceiling instead, but she did it. She was able to stumble to her feet and put herself between the two men, panting and wild-eyed, daring their mutual captor to shoot her to get at his target. Because that was the only way she was going to allow him to kill the man she loved, the man she no longer deserved to love but couldn't stop even if she tried.

If he wanted Sherlock dead, he would have to go through Molly Hooper to get him.

For a minute – a long, agonizing minute – she though he would do it. She really thought he would pull the trigger on the gun that was now pointed squarely at her chest, putting a bullet through her heart before turning the weapon on Sherlock, who had managed somehow to rise to one knee in an attempt to move Molly out of the way. But she wasn't budging, no matter who tried to move her.

She'd finally had enough. The strength she could never muster in her own defense came raging forward to protect the man she loved.

His counterpart's reaction to her actions was...unexpected. He stared at the pair of them for a minute before throwing his head back and laughing.

When he finished, however, the gun was once again trained steadily on his two captives, his eyes cold and devoid of the mirth he'd just exhibited. "Well, Molly, so nice to know your spirit isn't quite as broken as I'd believed it to be. Too bad you found your backbone just in time to watch me kill the man you've been waiting so long to come to your rescue."

"You'll have to shoot me first," she said, grateful that her voice remained steady, her eyes tear-free.

"And don't think I won't, Molly", he replied, but his eyes weren't on hers any longer, they were staring down at his other self instead. "Don't think I won't shoot you down and walk over your cold corpse in order to shoot him as well. And then John Watson and the irritating DI Lestrade and whoever else tries to stand in my way. Or," he added with no change in expression, "you can step aside and let me kill him...and I pledge to spare John Watson's life. And yours."

"Do it, Molly." That was her Sherlock; she swung around to face him, eyes wide with shock as their gazes met and locked. "I didn't come all this way just to watch you die."

"And I don't think I could live with myself if I watched _you_ die," was her heated reply, but even as she spoke she knew she'd already lost this argument. She recognized the stubborn set of his chin, the cool determination in his blue-green eyes.

"Either we all die or just I do, Molly." A faint ghost of a smile tilted the corners of his lips. "It seems a fair enough exchange, my life for those of my friends."

"Yes, yes, very noble," the other man sneered. "I'll be sure and have those very words inscribed on your tombstone. Now. Step aside, Molly."

She couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but remain frozen in place, still staring down at Sherlock, begging him with her eyes to find some way out of this desperate situation.

The tension was broken in the most unexpected manner possible; the ringing of a mobile phone. Her captor's phone, as it turned out. He made an annoyed sound, then yanked it out of his coat pocket and held it to his ear. "This had better be good," he growled, not removing his gaze from his two prisoners.

There was a long, silent pause as he listened intently to whoever was on the other line. Molly bit her lip, caught between the desire to rush him and possibly get the gun away from him and the sure knowledge that to attempt to do so would be tantamount to suicide. Something of her internal conflict must have shown on her face, because she felt Sherlock's hand on her wrist. She glanced down in surprise; he'd raised himself to one knee in order to reach her, and as soon as her anxious gaze met his he shook his head, very slightly. Reading her just like he always did; God, she'd missed him so much, trapped on this world with his evil doppelganger...and now he was trapped, too. He and John.

She finally took the time to wonder how they'd come to be here; had the same force that had stolen her away taken them as well? No, of course; not; he'd been here for two weeks, wasn't that what the other Sherlock had said? He'd come here, or been brought or sent here, to find her. After all this time, he'd never given up on looking for her. Even if it was only because her disappearance was a mystery to be solved, he'd still come after her.

Tears threatened once again, tears she grimly fought to contain as their mutual captor finally spoke, snapping out a series of commands into the mobile before returning his attention to them. "Well, Mr. Holmes, you appear to have earned a reprieve," he said with a cold smile. Without looking at Molly, he added: "Get dressed. We've a meeting with my brother. It seems he's finally located the elusive physicist who brought you here. Perfect timing."

**oOo**

The drive from Baker Street was made in complete silence. He – "Mr. Holmes" she silently vowed to call him from now on – had allowed Molly to help Sherlock to his feet, to support him as he limped out of the bedroom, the other man holding the gun in a casual manner that fooled neither of them. Not when his eyes remained cold and watchful, watching and assessing their every move.

Even if there had been a moment when Molly or Sherlock might have gained the upper hand, it was well and truly gone once Sebastian Moran entered the equation. He was waiting at the door to the flat, his own gun in his hand, and there was nothing casual about the way he held it trained on the two of them, the way he watched them as if hoping they would try something.

Molly had spent more time in his company than anyone other than her captor, and still there were only two things she knew about him: how utterly ruthless he was, and how completely loyal he was to his employer. She tried to convey that to Sherlock just using her eyes, not even daring to shake her head or make any moves that Moran might construe as an attempt to escape or attack. Whether she was successful in her silent warning or whether Sherlock simply understood the danger the second man presented – and if he'd been here for two weeks, then surely he'd learned something about his counterpart's deadly chief of security – all he did was study their newest opponent just as intently as he was being watched.

All he did was allow Molly to assist him, limping and shaking, down the stairs and from there into their opponent's waiting vehicle.

Sebastian Moran rode with them in the backseat of the limo, facing them, the gun held casually on his lap, while Holmes uncharacteristically opted for the front seat by the driver. When Molly could be bothered to wonder about it, she supposed it was so neither she nor Sherlock would be tempted to try and overpower him or hold him hostage. Although she knew Sherlock was in no condition to do any such thing, and that she herself had already proven her complete ineffectiveness at attempting to harm either man, Holmes wasn't the type to leave anything to chance.

Holmes. She chanted the man's surname constantly in the back of her mind, until it became a meaningless string of letters, trying to impress it upon her subconscious. He wasn't Sherlock, never would be Sherlock. Sherlock was sitting next to her, allowing her to fuss with the makeshift bandages she'd been allowed to use to try and stem the flow of blood from the gunshot wound in his thigh. Wherever they were going, she hoped she would be allowed to properly see to the injury before it became infected or Sherlock bled out.

She resolutely refused to think about anything further into the future than their immediate destination, the thought of seeing John Watson – the real John Watson, the caring, friendly, loyal man she'd only started to get to know before being stolen away – and finally meeting this world's Greg Lestrade. Even if they were only fellow prisoners, being with others who wouldn't treat her with disdain or coldness would be a welcome change. And surely they would be sympathetic to her plight…or would they?

She shuddered, hard, as she wondered if their reaction would be more akin to anger at having been captured by Holmes' men while trying to save someone as stupid and insignificant as herself. Would John regret coming here, did Sherlock already do so? After all, she'd been here a year and hadn't done one single thing to remedy either her own situation or anyone else's.

Her breath caught and she turned away from Sherlock's now semi-conscious form, unable to stop the sob that erupted from her lips as the memory of Sally Donovan's murder crashed into her mind. She'd been right there, could have done something to stop it from happening, and been about as effective as an umbrella against an avalanche. Her captor had forced her to read the headlines the discovery of Sally's body had garnered, the gruesome shots of her battered corpse after it had been retrieved from the dump site in Scotland where Moran had left it – after removing both her ears and mailing them to Lestrade's private residence. Holmes had been quite gleeful as he told her that he'd discovered that Sally had apparently been Lestrade's mistress as well as his underling.

She'd very nearly thrown up when he remarked that, had he known about that relationship, he would have had Moran take a more personal souvenir from her body. Then he'd smirked as if there was something more, something he wasn't telling her. Something she definitely didn't want to hear.

She huddled into herself as the memory washed over her, staring unseeingly out of the tinted window. Her captor had laughed when she'd called him a barbarian, caught her to him and bent her over the dining room table, her dressing gown and the flimsy wisp of fabric that passed for a nightgown flipped up and her knickers askew as he'd entered her, holding her down and whispering a stream of filth in her ear as he pounded into her from behind.

Afterwards he'd had her remove the dressing-gown and made her sit by his side as he did some kind of research on his laptop. She'd been to distraught by what had just passed between them – his cruel comments about Sally Donovan more than the forced sex – to wonder why at first, but had quickly realized it was so he could have access to the small oval scar on the side of her breast. The one holding his initials: SVH. Sherlock Vernet Holmes. She knew he liked to look at it, but that day he seemed to have developed a fascination with touching it. Although he appeared engrossed in his research, every now and then he'd reach over and absently trace his thumb over the mark, much the way she would idly twirl her hair when she was reading.

Her dark memories held her trapped for the duration of the ride. When the car stopped, she waited passively for Moran to push open the door and step outside before doing her best to help Sherlock out. The bleeding appeared to have slowed during the trip, but she knew as soon as he started moving again the wound would very likely reopen.

Before she could express her concerns to either Moran or Holmes, the door opened from the outside, the driver reaching in to manhandle Sherlock out of the vehicle.

Inside the building the two of them were brought to an interior door. One of Holmes's men was on guard there, seated in a folding metal chair and glancing through a newspaper until he heard their footsteps. Sigerson, she thought his name was. He rose to his feet, dropping the paper and clearly trying not to goggle at the sight of his employer's wounded lookalike.

"Bring medical supplies, the good doctor will no doubt want to remove the bullet and patch up our friend here," Holmes ordered the man as he produced a key and unlocked the door. Moran gestured with his gun for Molly to enter, and she did so, pausing to put her arm around Sherlock when she saw him swaying a bit when he tried to make his way in on his own.. He accepted her assistance with a tight-lipped nod of thanks, and she tried not to worry too much about the chalk-whiteness of his face.

She darted a quick glance around the room, which was large and poorly lit. However, she could make out a table and four chairs set roughly in the middle, which she guided Sherlock to while still taking in the details of their newest prison.

One door in the opposite wall from the one through which they'd entered, partially open and very likely leading to a bathroom. The only other furniture was a pair of bunk beds set against the wall to their right, to which she paid no attention, too busy helping ease Sherlock into a sitting position on the nearest folding chair. She was still fretting over the amount of blood he'd lost when she noted movement out of the corner of her eye and raised her head to see who…

She felt dizzy, a wave of heat and cold flashing over her body as she saw John Watson hurrying toward them, with DI Lestrade hard on his heels. "Christ!" John swore as soon as he realized Sherlock had been injured.

It was the real John Watson, the one from her world, it had to be him, Sherlock had said he was here, thank God he was here to help, his medical training was on live people, not corpses like her and God, she didn't want Sherlock to end up a corpse...

"Breathe, Molly."

She turned back to Sherlock, meeting his gaze through eyes gone bleary with sudden tears, and did as he'd commanded. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly as John reached her side. "Hullo, John. Sorry I left your p-party so abruptly," she said, a feeble attempt at a joke.

"Well, it was a crap party anyway," he responded, enfolding her in a brief but clearly heartfelt hug before gently setting her aside and lowering himself to one knee in order to better exam Sherlock's wound. "Christ, Sherlock, how did this happen?"

His friend managed a ghost of a smile even as he flinched in pain as John moved his leg as gently as he could in order to get a better look at the wound. "Oh, you know how it is, John. My counterpart felt it necessary to prove his dominance through the crude methods preferred on this world. No offense," he added, glancing over John's shoulder, speaking to the other prisoner.

Molly's gaze automatically followed the same path, shrinking back a bit as she met Lestrade's eyes. "Greg," she said, then nothing more, the words drying up in her mouth as all the guilt and pain and sorrow she'd felt at her failure to save Sally Donovan came crashing over her.

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Hooper," he replied with a tired smile that barely reached his eyes, either not noticing or politely ignoring her sudden paralysis. "Wish it was under better circumstances. Tried to arrange that, but things don't always go to plan here."

"I...yes," she managed to croak out, dropping her gaze to her hands, which were twining together anxiously. She turned her attention back to John and Sherlock, unable to face Lestrade. What if he asked her...no, she couldn't think about that, not now. Right now she needed to focus on Sherlock, on helping John. She mumbled something about the medical supplies and hurried over to wait by the door, but her legs were trembling and she buckled and dropped to the floor before she was halfway there.

Lestrade reached her as her knees struck the floor, helping her back up, guiding her to one of the other seats. She refused to meet his eyes as she thanked him, knowing she must look as dreadfully guilty as she felt, which only set her stomach churning.

"It's not your fault, Molly." That was Sherlock again, speaking through gritted teeth as John adjusted the belt still strapped around his thigh. "Whatever it is you think you have to feel guilty about, stop it. Nothing that's happened here is your fault."

She was saved from responding by the sound of the door opening. A wheeled cart was pushed into the room, holding an array of medical supplies and pushed by a stone-faced guard Molly didn't recognize. Lestrade took the cart when it was clear the guard wasn't coming any closer than the position he'd taken up just inside the door, which he swung shut. Then he waited, one hand on his gun and his eyes suspiciously watching everything the four prisoners did.

He remained in the room while John quickly and efficiently bandaged up Sherlock's wound, pronouncing it clear of debris as the bullet had gone cleanly through the fleshy part of his thigh. He'd had to help the other man ease his trousers down in order to do so, apologizing for not having something else for him to wear and shooting a glare at their guard all the while. The other man affected not to notice, but Molly saw the slight grin hovering about his lips and found it in her to add someone else to her growing list of people she wouldn't hesitate to shoot, given the chance. He was enjoying this, their suffering, their pain, and most of all, their helplessness.

Once again she found herself silently railing against a God that would allow her prayers to be answered in so twisted a fashion; she'd prayed for Sherlock to come to her rescue, and he had, only to be immediately captured because she couldn't tell the real thing from the crude duplicate. She really should have just slit her wrists the first chance she got; Sherlock and John might still have come after her, but at least they would have discovered quickly the pointlessness of their journey and returned home safely.

And maybe, just maybe, Sally Donovan would still be alive.

She rose to her feet and made her way toward the half-open door, her legs continuing to support her this time, thank…No, she thought fiercely as she shut the door behind her and stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror fastened to the wall over the sink. Not "Thank God." No matter how horrified her deeply Catholic mother would be to hear her thoughts at the moment, the only thing she could do was curse whatever divinity there might be to this heartless, uncaring universe before once again collapsing to the floor, sobbing harder than she had in a long, long time.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the delay, folks, but hope it was worth it! Chapter 12 is being worked on even as we speak. I'm estimating about 3 more chapters after that, subject to change without notice as always. And as always, many thanks to my lovely beta Moonmama for helping me whip this puppy into shape, and to Nocturnias for general all around awesomeness!_


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